


Better To Light A Candle

by ozsia



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Aged-Up Characters, Bat Family, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bruce Wayne is okay with this, Crimes & Criminals, Dysfunctional People, Forgive the author, Forgive the tags, Harry Potter refuses the spandex, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/ Non-con, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Romance, Snapshots, Superheroes, Vigilantism, because author isn't overly familiar with DC material, there are so many issues, trying their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozsia/pseuds/ozsia
Summary: 'A friend of yours?' Gordon asks as he glances at the stalking figure standing by Batman's side. They are a fighter, that's easy enough to deduce but they aren't dressed in the attire that Gordon has gotten used to for people that march under the banner that Batman holds.Batman huffs. 'In a manner of speaking.''He did try to lose me on the way over,' the stranger seems to grin from out under their hood which perfectly shadowed the top half of their face, and makes identifying them impossible.'"Try" being the operative word, I see.'





	1. Bullet Wound

Alfred Pennyworth has seen a lot of things in his life. Of course, Alfred also works for a man who dresses up as a bat at all hours of the night, to fight the crime which overran their city years before Master Bruce could do anything to stop it. This tends to allow things of a…curious nature into their converted, underground bunker more times than not.

Which is probably how Alfred notices the young man stumbling through the street with a fixedly unfocused expression on his pale face. A trembling hand latched onto a drooping shoulder in a manner that resembles the way Master Bruce might hold onto his Batwave. It doesn't take a moment for Alfred to determine that the youth is injured and that it is most likely the result of felonious intents.

The young man is perhaps in his late twenties, but short - much too short - and swaying as he passes Alfred. Alfred tentatively reaches out, his fingers brushing against the man's arm and the reaction is immediate, if not stilted from injury.

Green eyes, the likes of which Alfred has never seen, snaps up to Alfred’s face with a new, fresh panic writ into his body and expression. His gaze flickers about and although the butler is about as nonthreatening as one can be in Gotham, nothing about the young man settles. 

'Excuse me, my good sir, are you terribly alright?' Alfred asks, only to frown now that he is closer and notices the red sluggishly bleeding through trembling fingers. 'Great Scott! You're bleeding!’

The young man grimaces and leans away from Alfred in a way that screams wary. 'Yeah, I noticed that too,' an English accent replies with a notable slur. 'Seems like I walked into a bullet.’

Alfred raises an eyebrow dispassionately as an odd sense of familiarity overcomes him. He is achingly used to this, having had to deal with much the same sort of attitude addressed to him by Master Bruce when dealing with many deep tissue wounds.

Instead, however, it’s a stranger who is suffering and the more Alfred looks at the young man, the more odd it becomes to him. I’s a bland, grey day, but silent. This sort of hour is the best time to be out and about, with many of the more dangerous criminals yet to awaken to terrorise the night.

Most likely, this young man was either immensely unlucky or he’s been targeted. If there is a price has been put onto his head then he’s in the wrong place to start with. Gotham is a place people go to _die_ in that type of situation.

'And an ambulance was not called?' Alfred asks sternly. The man obviously walked away from the crime scene, whether that was due to the danger has yet to be established, but he doesn't seem to be in a rush.

There is many reasons why people won’t call the authorities or want to be seen to be involved with certain people, or even parts of town; Gotham is unfortunately that type of place. Why that would bother an Englishman who isn't from around here, Alfred couldn't say.

The man's eyes are glazed as they flicker to and from Alfred's face. 'Ain't got no phone,' he states obstinately and yet, Alfred knows instantly from raising a very intelligent individual into adulthood that there is at least an omission in those words.

Still, this man needs treatment.

Without a second thought, Alfred readjusts his grip on the young man’s surprisingly muscular arm and starts to guide the youth in the direction of where he knows a hospice to be located. It will be a bit of a walk but it is better than nothing.

The man's breath is rasping and he is worryingly weak footed, even at Alfred's slowed pace. Perhaps having been inflicted with more than one injury? Like a bullet to the upper chest isn't enough.

'Where -' the man coughs a spluttering sound. 'Where you goin'?'

The man’s struggling and yet experimentally tugging on his captured arm, as if curiously confused as to what's happened with it. Of course, it could be the blood loss. Alfred doesn't smell any alcohol on the youth and from what he's seen of those eyes, he isn’t been partaking in any narcotics.

'I am taking you to a doctor,' Alfred informs the young man briskly, but still looks back with one of his more stony expressions when the man starts to more adamantly pull away.

'N-no. Not - can't -'

'Sir,' Alfred addresses him firmly to silence the protests. He's used to arguing the importance of medical attention, just not to anyone who is not his charge. 'From your own admission you have been shot. You could be bleeding internally as we speak. I insist on a doctor.'

'No hospitals!' the man hisses, in a way that makes him sound more animal than human. He stops walking entirely then, stubbornly digging in his heels and skidding them both to a halt. It is evident that while he has no strength to speak of, he is however, far heavier than his thin form and short statue would imply.

Alfred stares. He is not frightened like he should be, as he looks at hazy but narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. The man could be a criminal for all Alfred knows and his behaviour and his type of injury should elicit suspicion.

But Alfred is not the least bit intimidated; has seen all sorts in his life and although it could speak more of his own arrogance than this man's innocence, he truly does not think there is any threat to be had here. To that end, even if the man is non-violent (regardless of how he may have gotten his injury in the beginning), he still refuses a hospital. Really, Alfred is going to get an earful from Master Bruce.

'Very well,' Alfred concedes reluctantly before he about turns, probably jostling the young man by forcing him to move, and crosses the street after pausing to let a couple of cars pass. Compromise is key to child rearing. What is fortunate is that they only have to pass a few houses before they arrive at the entrance to an alleyway.

It was just as well that Alfred - much like Master Bruce - knows this city like the back of his hand. It was perhaps irony that they already weren't far off from Park Row.

'Shouldn't be far,' Alfred informs the man though they will have to be quick. Park Row - or "Crime Alley”, as it’s more ambiguously known - is not the place to dawdle. 'Nearly there now, sir,' he encourages again when the man all but trips on an empty beer bottle, trying to soothe his obvious unease. This is not the type of place he relishes adventuring through.

The man grunts a response but doesn't say any more until Alfred has dragged his sorry arse up to the door of the clinic. Run down as it is, Alfred doubts it looks at all impressive or reassuring but beggars can't be choosers.

'Up we go now, sir.' The stairs are fortunately stone but shot all to hell from a few years back. A gang war had begun, turned violent from one member getting killed by another and the revenge had grown: flooding out into the streets. Luckily, the bullets never penetrated the walls; this clinic is a safe space in ways that churches are not. Even criminals know not to bring anything but bodies here.

Alfred rings for service on the intercom Master Bruce has anonymously paid for, along with the keypad and electronic door which are the only things about the clinic outside the proud, glass and metal nameplate that aren’t falling apart.

_'Yes?'_ a voice responds through the intercom, as its inhabitants know not to outright open the door despite the truce. You can never be too careful.

'Hello, Doctor Leslie. It's Alfred,' he informs her, shifting his grip on the man who is starting to tilt sideways. 'I've got another patient for you: man says he's been shot.'

…not my benefactor?' Leslie asks for conformation. She is a close friend of the family, having worked with Master Thomas back in those more illustrious days when there seemed to still be hope for Gotham City. Now, after the tragic murder of Thomas and Martha, and in the new era of crime, Leslie has rededicated her life to the less fortunate.

'No, you've seen the news.' Master Bruce is set to be given an award not long from now (one that Alfred hopes not to miss. Master Bruce would notice and he does so tend to worry). Besides that, it is far too early for Batman to be up and about. Leslie, needless to say, knows of Master Bruce's nightlife. It has been a necessary decision Alfred made after Master Bruce came back to him one night so broken that Alfred could not fix him.

'Of course. I'll buzz you through.’

There's the obnoxious noise of the alarm being disarmed with the unlocking of the doors, something which Alfred has heard too many times already. Alfred wastes no time in opening the door and pushing the young man through, though he does stumble over the edge of the door frame before he can right himself.

They are still in the entranceway and Leslie is already stepping out from behind her desk which slopes on one side and is held up by nothing but sellotape, protruding nails and good fortune.

She is a good woman of average height and weight, dressing simply and practically but always with her doctor's jacket. She hurries to them and her quick, sharp eyes are already running over the two of them before she focuses on the young man, who has slumped into Alfred's side.

'Hello,' Leslie greets with a sympathetic smile which only highlights the lines time has started to carve into her face. Her black hair is stubborn but also beginning to pepper itself with white strands, from stress and long nights. 'I'm Leslie Thompkins but call me whatever you're comfortable with.'

The man seems to study her for a minute before he inclines his head in acceptance and just as soon, she is leading them back through to the stairwell and away from the louder bottom floor. The steps are steep and broken; a health hazard all their own, but it would cost a small fortune to have them repaired, especially in this part of town; something Leslie can ill-afford.

Leslie glances to Alfred and between them, they help the young man up the stairs. The last thing either of them wants is to have him trip and fall, and further injure himself before Leslie can sow him back together.

Thankfully, they reach the top without incident though the man is further exhausted by the exercise. A number of closed rooms are ahead with different locked units outside each one, functioning as medicine cabinets. On each door is a whiteboard where Leslie can write names, instructions and whatever other information she or any one of the few helpers she has may need to know.

At the end of the hallway is another set of stairs which leads to the attic. One half of the space up there is for patients that are in need of a quiet recovery, while the rest is used for equipment.Styled more like a common hospital, there is little privacy though there have been attempts with curtains stabled to the ceiling and Chinese screens that have seen better days. 

Leslie shows them though to the second room down. The door creaks open as she pushes it aside for them to enter. 'These are for my In-and-Outs,' Leslie tells the man as she takes one arm and Alfred the other, to help him up onto the examination table. She settles him while Alfred closes the door. (Living with Master Bruce may have, conceivably, made him paranoid.)

'Alright, show me this bullet wound,' Leslie asks patiently as Alfred turns back around. The man blinks at her for a moment before Alfred clears his throat.

'We can still take you to a hospital…' Alfred trails off and that's enough for the man to start the arduous task of undressing. He sheds a rather beaten up leather jacket - military styled, that is shrugged to sit stiffly behind him before Alfred moves it to the side so that it is not in the way.

Next is a long-sleeved, black shirt that the man gets held up on as he struggles to undo the buttons. Leslie is always careful not to intrude on her patients space, but when the fiddling continues for too long, she reaches forward to help. Valiantly ignoring how the man stiffens as their fingers brush, she pauses only long enough for him to relax before completing the task.

'Ah, there we go,' Leslie mutters and gently pulls the two sides of the collar away from the man's chest and down his shoulders so that it is free from his form. The both of them hiss when his torso is laid bare for them to see.

The bullet wound is, in a word, gruesome. There is no obvious burn marks and it is too big for that to be the point of entry, which means that this man was shot from behind. The blood trails down his chest, paving a path along his stomach muscles to sink below his waistline.

Perhaps more telling is the mass of bruises that decorate the man's skin. It seems like someone has tried to paint this young man purple. With their fists. Leslie glances at Alfred in a silent enquiry but Alfred has no answers so he merely shakes his head.

The man certainly has the physique of a fighter, with the tightly built muscles that is wired into his rather petit form. Still quite streamlined and nothing like a bodybuilder, but…perhaps a martial artist or something of the like. That does not reveal the man's temperament, however; what he was trained in, or how he got into this condition to begin with.

Clumsily, the man taps below the bullet hole and through gritted teeth, bites out: 'exit wound.' Leslie nods - she would have guessed that within a second of seeing it - and rounds the examination table, skimming between its edge and the tight space between the table and the wall, to see the entrance.

'Alfred, can you push my tray over?' Leslie asks and without question, Alfred hums in agreement and goes to pull over the metal cart so that it is by the side of the examination table, and easily accessible. Leslie is looking closer at the man's back while sanitising her hands. Once finished, she absently puts on a fresh pair of gloves, of which she keeps a packet attached to the belt around her waist.

Alfred goes to stand to the side of the head of the table watching as she feels up and down the man's spine for a moment before nodding. Leslie comes back around to face her patient. 'We'll need to sow this up for you,' she tells him as she reaches for a fresh cloth from her trey and hands it to Alfred.

He's worked with this woman many times due to Master Bruce's constant need for medical attention, so he doesn't pause before he's reaching around the man's back and pressing the cloth against the wound while Leslie does the same for the front.

Alfred looks at the man's discomforted side profile while Leslie asks: 'can you tell me if you're feeling any nausea or dizziness?'

The man's eyes crinkle but he slowly nods. 'A bit,' he admits reluctantly. 'But…I think that's the concussion.'

'You hit your head?' Leslie demands, lips pursing as the man again wordlessly agrees.

‘Well,’ the man begins after pausing in thought. ‘Tech-noc-ly, someone did…that for me,' the man replies with a shaky smiles. 'No worries though, Doc, I know I'm not bleedin' inter-nelly,' he states with what seems to be a numb tongue. 'Some bloke just thought it'd be funny to play Whack-A-Mole with me as thah mole. Jus' gimme some stitches. Need - without the holes, when I get - get shouted at.’

That is the most Alfred has heard this man say, but he finds himself becoming more bemused as the man continues on before finally coming to a stop.

'You have medical experience?' Leslie enquires, probably wanting to know if she can trust the man's word, while she sorts out the equipment she'll need with one hand. The sanitiser, cotton, needles and dissolvable thread is all put onto a clean tray that she places onto the examination table, near the man's thigh.

'Yeah. A lot.' The man snorts without elaborating.

'A lot in providing it or needing it?' Leslie asks shrewdly with a cocked eyebrow.

'What's the - the defiance. Difference?' the man retorts and stills a shrug he was halfway through performing, before remembering he’s been shot. 'I've taken a few causes - courses; best teacher is experience though, and I've been in and out of - hospitals since…ever.'

Abuse is the first thought in Alfred's head, it would make the man's height make some sense, though he knows he shouldn't speculate on something like that.

'The bullet was through and through,' the man says without waiting for a reply and Alfred realises that he is probably impatient to get some actual medical aid. 'And…no pain killas. P-please,' he adds just as Leslie is reaching for a syringe.

Leslie looks back, blinking in surprise. 'Why -?'

'I need some…a-aware-ness so - to stumble home,' the man replies as Leslie gently removes her cloth so she can set about cleaning the outside of the wound to avoid later infection. The cloth meets its end in the waste bin. 'If…if it makes you feel more com-footble; I'm - I'm allergic.'

She dabs the area with the cotton carefully and when she's satisfied, throws that cleanly away too. 'It's not about my comfort,' she rebukes but doesn't reach for the syringe. She is a doctor - was once at the forefront of medicine - but she has learnt different ways of handling patients, with this clinic. Most are criminals, scatting outside of the law or not able to afford health care, and it requires her to oftentimes listen to the patients' wants over their needs, to avoid putting them in a worse position.

'Alfred, take this young man's hand,' Leslie requests as she prepares the rounded needle.

'Of course,' Alfred says agreeably and presents his free hand to the man who doesn't seem to know what to do with it. 'Sir,' he prompts.

After a brief pause of hesitance, the young man interlinks their fingers. 'Jus' don't throw your medical expanses - expensive - expenses at me, if…if I break something,' he huffs, each single word a difficulty. 'You A-Americans and your health care.'

'I am not an American.' Though Alfred lives in America fully now, he does not - and never will - think of himself as American.

Green eyes flash in distress as steel pierces the man's skin with the beginning of the first stitch. He stills a violent jerk and his neck stains, his veins becoming visible through the column of pale flesh. For all that he appears to be in pain and even with his earlier warning, Alfred feels barely a spasm of it directed towards his hand, with with the man's fingers tense, yet refraining form taking a firm hold of his ageing hand.

'Y-yeah,' the man responds, a bit breathlessly as his chest stalls for one, two heartbeats. 'Figured.'

Leslie has a no-questions-asked policy when it comes to her patients. She treats anyone who comes to her for help but this man, now that he is off the street, doesn't show any signs of antisocial behaviour. In all honesty, he is far more talkative than what you'd expect from someone with a hole in their chest.

With that in mind, Alfred allows himself to ask: 'what part of England are you from?'

'Surrey,' the man replies after a few steadying exhales as Leslie continues her work. 'Was more up Scotland way before I got goin' with me - my career.' And with his eyes he indicates the dog tags that are hanging low and painted red from his blood on his chest. 'Served for a bit.'

> **"POTTER**
> 
> **HARRY**
> 
> **DMLE - 31 07 80S**
> 
> **HALF-BLOOD**
> 
> **NEUTRAL"**

'That…is not an ordinary dog tag,' Alfred states in perplexity after squinting enough to read the small, thin bit of metal. Though it is nice to know the man's name - "Harry Potter" - that is obviously not the man's social security number which is usually printed on a service man's dog tag. The last two lines don't make a lick of sense either.

Potter tenses. 'Please stay still,' Leslie scolds, glancing up for a moment at the two of them to show a hint of her disapproval, before going back to giving the wound her full attention.

Potter ignores her and stares soundly at Alfred with an amount of startling clarity. 'You can see it.'

Alfred raises an eyebrow in question. 'Should I not be able to?'

Potter shakes his head, a tired movement that barely manages to shift his hair. 'What does the last line say?'

'…"neutral",' Alfred reads after pausing. 'I do believe, however, that that is a…curious religion, Mister Potter,' he comments, knowing that is what should be in its place.

'It's not -' Potter stops himself, hesitates as his eyes flicker to Leslie. 'Does…does the word "squib" mean anythin' to you?'

And that's all Potter needs to say for Alfred to understand. For him to remember his grandmother and her sad, sad eyes and his grandfather's fury that was only equal to his sorrow every time he glanced Alfred's way.

'Ah,' is all Alfred can say. 'So you are…'

Well, a half-blood. What else could that have meant? Alfred thinks to himself with suddenly itching skin.

Potter's eyes are still looking at him though and he does not seem to regard him with any malice. 'Yeah.' He nods simply. 'Don't know how much sense this'll make tah - to you, so tell me to cork it if, ya'know.' He stumbles on his words as he blinks slowly, obviously struggling to stay awake. 'Bur I was on'na case. Got a bit distracted when the prick I was tryin' to apprehend injured a sardine - civilian. Then cuz I'm lucky like this, managed to get myself sent here on an international portkey.'

Luckily, Alfred knows enough; probably more than a lot of second-generation squibs, that is. He's been told quite a bit about the Ministry and portkeys from cousins, as his grandparents struggled to share their world with him. If Potter works for the Ministry - which is what it sounds like - then he is probably part of their police department, chasing a criminal. What doesn't make sense, however: 'The bullet wound?'

Potter's mouth twists with bitterness even as his brow furrows. 'Er…he wasn't…"native".'

Which is to say…not a Pureblood? Well, either way. 'Do you have a way to get home?'

Potter nods after a second. 'Yeah. Should be fine.' Alfred doesn't quite believe it if the way he says it - so tiredly - is any indication.

'Alright, sweetheart,' Leslie announces, in the process of cutting off the excess string from the needle. 'Just your back left to sow up.'

Potter grimaces. 'Fun.'

It’s fortunate that their short conversation, to Leslie, was probably double Dutch that she's put down to English colloquialisms or Potter's concussion. Not to say that Leslie isn’t becoming aware of the more…unusual aspects of life through Batman's adventures, just that she didn't pick them up.

'Almost there,' Leslie promises as Alfred removes the cloth he's been keeping on the entrance wound all this time, and hands it back to Leslie so that she can dispose of it.

'S'okay.' Potter smiles crookedly in reassurance as he takes a steadying breath. 'I've had worse.' Which is frankly unsurprising from the amount of scar tissue Potter is sporting, if disheartening with how young he appears.

Leslie doesn't comment though and quickly gets to work. Stitching the entrance wound takes less time and once she is finished, she removes her gloves for a new pair, in order to bandage her patient.

'Alright, sweetheart,' Leslie says as she puts temporary plasters on the back and then the front of the wound after moving around the examination table again in order to reach Potter's chest. 'You're done.'

Potter takes a shuddering breath. 'Thanks, it's appreciated.' He smiles then, slightly crooked and a bit strained as he tilts his head towards her. 'What do I owe you?'

'Your continued good health,' Leslie states without missing a beat and wards off whatever response he says. 'Now, you'll have to keep this clean - but do not wash the wound directly. And if you don't want to stretch it out or pop a stitch, you'll need to avoid exercise.'

Something about Potter's face softens, the defence wired into his body smoothing all his sharp lines. He becomes something indescribably younger. 'Got it, Doc.'

Humming, Leslie leans forward and tilts Potter's head toward her and then downwards, which tenses the man back up again. She looks over his scalp, gently shifting hair out of her way by running her fingers through that thick mane of long, black tresses. 'Ah - found it,' she mutters. 'Oh, hon. What'd you get hit with?' Leslie asks with noticeable sympathy as she starts the process of cleaning the wound.

Alfred doesn't have a very good view from the angle he's positioned in, but he can tell that it is causing Potter some distress. 'Dunno,' Potter responds carelessly. 'Could have been the butt of the gun, the wall, the edge of the dumpster,' he lists with an air of nonchalance that Alfred knows all too well. 'Prat liked attacking from behind, didn't really care what he hit with. When I haunt - hunt this guy down, I'm throwing the book at him.'

'Leave the book throwing until after you can see straight, okay, champ?' Leslie grins, though Alfred knows that she doesn't understand the context of this not-so proverbial book.

'As if to say that there aren't four of you?' Potter asks rhetorically, perking up with awareness as he allows himself to settle into the clinic's wall as his eyes mockingly widen. 'Well, colour me surprised.'

Leslie snorts as she begins to clean around the wound with more cotton-wool that goes straight in the bin afterwards. Potter winces at the beginning before he steadies himself. 'To take care of the concussion, go home, get someone - a partner, a family member, a friend you could drag in - to wake you up in the morning to check on you. Avoid bright lights and try to keep from doing anything strenuous. If you seem impaired in any way, you have to get to a hospital. Concussions aren't as easy as a through-and-through bullet wound. Got all that?' Leslie questions as she reaches for the bandages.

'I dunno, is this going to be on the test?' Potter asks with a deadpan face.

'If it were, I'd fail you,' Leslie responds as she wraps Potter's head in bandages until there is a white halo encircling his midnight hair, with the shorter ends stuck up quite ridiculously as they flick in every direction while the longer ends trail down his neck and shoulders without a care.

Potter dramatically wipes his eyes as Leslie steps back to inspect her work. 'Breaking my heart, Doc. Here I've been such a good patient…'

Leslie rolls her eyes, no doubt enjoying this visit far more than who would typically call upon her. 'A good patient isn't a patient at all.'

Potter tsks, though his exhaustion still shadows his face and makes his every move slow. 'You won't be saying that the next time someone pukes on your shoes.'

'Get dressed, mister,' Leslie commands, amusement clear in her tone.

'Oh, I see how it is. You check out the goods and you think that's all I'm got - good for,' Potter sniffs while Alfred wonders how the man can have so suddenly found his sense of humour. With a bullet wound and a concussion, even Master Bruce is liable to be broody. People cope in different ways.

Potter is obviously in pain because even with the current light mood, as soon as he goes to shrug his shirt back on, he grimaces, his eyes clenching as his nose wrinkles.

'Really,' Leslie chides and comes back over after pushing the cart away from the bed now she is finished with it. 'Take it slow,' she says as she takes control and eases the fabric back up his arms until the shirt has settled over the man's slumped shoulders. Carefully, she goes ahead and does the buttons up again. 'There, test is over.'

'Failing grade?' Potter questions as his hand trembles when he forces his palm over his chest.

'A for effort,' Leslie smiles before giving the man space. 'I'll leave the jacket to you,' she says which prompts Alfred to pick the heavy leather jacket up, unfold it and drape it over Potter's shoulders.

'Thanks,' Potter nods, glancing from Leslie to Alfred with quiet gratitude that shines through even if his tone is somewhat gruff. He takes Leslie's advice of slowing down, pulling one arm through a sleeve at a time. Once he's tugged the zip up the front, he's looking up at them again with bright green eyes. 'Really, Doc, what do I owe you?'

Leslie just smiles. 'Alfred, dear, help our friend here get back onto Main,' she orders as she silently aids Potter off of the table and patiently waits for the man to steady himself before letting go. 'I'm sure you two gentlemen will find something to talk about there.'

Which is a nice way of Leslie saying that she knows they had been having a rather private conversation right in front of her, though Leslie seems rather unbothered by it.

'Kick a guy to the curb, why don't you,' Potter sighs but the grin on his face doesn't quite fit with the pallor of his kin or the sweat trickling down his temples. He offers his hand, however, with a soft 'thank you.'

Leslie's face softens as it's rare someone is so courteous. 'Peace, child.' She takes his hand, gently folding the fingers together as she lightly shakes it while trying not to jostle the man.

Carefully, Leslie and Alfred help the man back out and down the stairs, where he almost goes arse over tea kettle as he becomes dizzy and almost falls. Luckily, between the two of them, they are able to stop Potter's descent and get him to the door no worse for wear.

She buzzes them out as Potter says goodbye. 'I'll remember this, Doctor Leslie Thompkins,' he promises, which could be read as threatening if it weren't for his tone of voice and the kindness glowing from his face like a beacon. 'If you ever need anything, call this number.' With some difficulty he takes a rather crumbled card from his back pocket and hands it to Leslie.

'Just avoid Whack-a-Mole from now on, champ,' Leslie laughs, but she takes the card, glancing at it before it disappears into the void that is her pocket.

Potter smirks weakly. 'No promises,' he responds as Alfred readjusts the hold he has on Potter's arm and starts to help the two of them down the stairs. The door shuts behind them and although Alfred tries to take his time getting to the floor, he knows that being caught in this alley would be anything but ideal.

'You have a phone, Mister Potter?' Alfred asks as they reach the last step, glad that he has kept himself in good shape so that carrying a good portion of someone else's weight doesn't tire him out.

'I was raised outside of the Wizarding World,' Potter replies without hostility, thankfully. Alfred didn't think that Potter was the type, not from what he’s learnt in the clinic, but people surprise him sometimes and it is very rarely good when they do. 'In my department of the Ministry, I wouldn't be able to keep my job without being able to integrate into both worlds. And - er, Harry's fine.'

Alfred merely quirks an eyebrow. 'It was good of you to offer your aid to Leslie, I shall hint to her not to throw your number away,' he says instead before changing the subject again as they emerge from the alley, seemingly unfollowed. 'You were rather vague, but you are in quite a state. Are you sure you will be capable of getting back to England, Mister Potter?'

Potter sighs. 'Well, MACUSA will have to be informed that I accidentally portkeyed into America with a wanted criminal, but they should be willing enough to help me back to England.'

'MACUSA?' Alfred finds himself asking, though he has long grown out of the little boy who wanted to learn about the other world he wasn't quite apart of, which didn't want him and never will.

'The American Ministry.' Potter shrugs. 'I've worked with them quite a bit, and we have an alright relationship. They're pretty picky with…er, teamwork, though.'

Not that much different from the American government, then, Alfred knows. 'Where can I drop you off?'

'I'm not anywhere near any magical settlements,' Potter states which is…disheartening. 'But I have nowhere to be for hours and…you feel a bit antsy, like you have somewhere to be? I can follow you that way and go it alone once I know you're safe.'

Hm, seems that Potter is very much a police officer. 'My charge is being gifted an award from the mayor and is set to give a speech, if we hurry we might be able to catch it,' Alfred allows if only because he now knows that Potter is harmless and because Alfred is late.

Potter blinks before that crooked smile is back. 'What is the afford - award for?'

'His rather sizeable donations to numerous charities,' Alfred says because he is very proud of Master Bruce, even if his work as the Batman often leaves his alter ego acting nothing like the man Alfred has seen grow up.

They walk and stumble through twenty minutes' worth of a journey before the city pulls back from stone and metal to show the city park. It isn't quite as green as it should be, half the plants are dead or have been trampled down, but it is the closest thing to vegetation Gotham has, even with the menace which was Poison Ivy.

Through the trees, the temporary stage is visible as are the television cameras and the security in the form of the police with the commissioner standing off to the side, looking vigilant and tense, though cordial, with the mayor on one side and Master Bruce on the other.

The crowd is rather big for this type of thing, with about twenty or so individuals. The Gotham occupancy rarely come out for such an event, it's too much of a risk for most when it is going to be on the television anyway.

'Quite the shindig,' Potter comments as they enter the park and start to swim the tide of the crowd to get a better view. It seems like they are right on time as the mayor has just taken the stage and is adjusting the mic when they reach the front. Immediately visible, Alfred can feel Master Bruce's eyes on him - blue like the clearest sky - flickering between Alfred and his guest.

Master Bruce's eyes narrow in askance but Alfred merely shakes his head. It's fine, he says silently and Master Bruce's shoulders relax as the mayor starts his drivelling speech.

Master Bruce has just been called onto the stage when it happens; a customised van drives into the park, mowing down plants, a food cart and nearly several people. Alfred turns just in time to see it screech to a halt as the crowd instantly starts to panic. It's easy to see why, with the Joker standing proudly on the roof.

Oh. Oh no, Alfred thinks as every muscle in him stiffens. The clown's twisted face and yellow eyes are distorted in a grotesque farce of hysterical laughter as he stares down at them.

'Yo! Bruce-y, Commish! Two of my favourite people in one place for a party, and no one thought to invite poor old Joker!' The Joker sobs into his arm as the people shifts amongst themselves, terrified of drawing attention to themselves. Alfred, himself, tightens his grip on Potter.

The Joker's two goons step out from the van, walls of dumb muscle, but very dangerous in ways the Joker rarely brothers with. 'But I figured if you can't join them…' The demented clown pulls out what appears to be a water gun in his infamous colour scheme from behind his back. 'Get them to join you.' The Joker's laughter has always made Alfred feel rather sick but it's doubly so now when the maniac is pointing a weapon in Alfred's direction.

The Joker's long spindly white finger is just about to pull back on the trigger when Potter is suddenly moving, freeing himself from Alfred's gasp. He reacts just in time to see Potter pull a knife from the sleeve of his jacket. Potter barely winces as he flexes his arm - pulling at his stitches and irritating his bruises, no doubt - in order to throw the blade.

It flies through the air like a bullet until the knife buries itself into the plastic of the gun's chamber. 'Scatter!' Potter demands and the crowd is all too quick to obey, what with the commanding presence of his voice and the sudden strength of his form that has come to radiate outwards, just as Potter gains the ire of a psychotic clown.

'No! No! No! That wasn't meant to happen!' the Joker shouts as he throws down the gun and lets it clatter off of the roof of the van. He somersaults to the ground, wildly pointing at Potter while Alfred takes the better part of valour and retreats to where the police are beginning to arm themselves. 'Who the hell are you! I didn't invite you to this party.'

'Harry Potter, at your service,' Potter introduces himself, bowing in a way that is just as theatrical as the Joker without the unhinged quality. 'I do believe this was VIP only.'

The Joker's eyes narrow but after a second, the anger that he’s been projecting sinks inwards - internalised. He shrugs, his heinous smile stretching further. 'This is my city and it's Bat's bedtime right now. No one else is aloud to play hero!'

'Pity,' Potter comments, his stance shifting into something more defensive as the commissioner demands the Joker step back and surrender. It goes ignored, even as the safeties are released. 'It's no fun for you without an adversary though, is it?'

'Ah well, me and Bruce-y are old time friends.' Potter's impressive eyes shift at the announcement, tilting his body a little to put Bruce and the commissioner further behind him. A protectors’ instinct. 'Seems to me like this was an important day for him and I couldn't have him thinking I didn't care, now could I?'

'How…kind of you,' Potter responds as the police run to secure a perimeter around them.

'But I think this celebration's gotten a little full,' the Joker remarks as he whistles. 'Punch, Judy - show time.'

That's all it takes for the two goons that've happily been watching the confrontation to come forward with animalistic roars. Punch grabs at a nearby tree, ripping a bulky branch off from the base that a normal man wouldn't even be able to lift. As soon as Punch has a handle on it, he's lifting it like a javelin and hauling it in the direction of the officers. It travels with such speed that it nails a few men too slow to properly get out of its path.

The commissioner is swearing and just calling for back up when Judy smashes into Potter, his giant fist slamming into the block Potter has put up. It's like a clash of the titans though Judy is heads taller and should have easily had Potter on his knees, especially with his injuries.

Potter withstands, however, and is quick to retaliate with a quick kick that causes Judy to stumble, curling inward as he does. The look on Judy's face is a mixture of pain and shock. 'What're they feeding you?' Potter asks as he delivers another, more rounded kick to Judy's head, one that Judy is too slow to respond to. It nails the man on his cheek and sends him flying a short distance before he crashes into the ground.

Potter huffs a breath, hiding pants of exhaustion as he attempts not to slump forward. It's this lapse of attention that enables Punch to grab Potter from behind in the second that Master Bruce yells out his warning: 'Hey! Behind you!'

Potter's feet dangle as Punch lifts the man from the ground, with one of his arms choking Potter by clutching at his neck, and another curling around Potter's abdomen like a boa constrictor.

Alfred can almost hear Master Bruce's hands clench and unclench as he struggles not to intervene. It is not in his nature to stand by and watch even when it means risking imprisonment, but there is nowhere for Master Bruce to escape to, not with the mayor using him as a shield, an officer at his side and the commissioner standing in front of him.

The commissioner is not as restricted as he takes aim and tries to shoot Punch, but the bullet just embeds itself into hulking muscle, useless, as Potter tries to lash out, grasping anywhere he can reach as his face turns red.

'Now, now, look who's the last one on the dance floor,' the Joker coos as he flutters his eyelashes. He skips forward with unholy glee until he is a few feet away from Potter. The clown leans in, seemingly to examine Potter's face as his struggles are stilled as Punch squeezes him harder.

'I don't think I've ever seen you before…' the Joker ponders. 'I'd remember that face…those eyes…' the madman leans in closer to Potter's face. 'So serious, though. You'd look so much better with a smile.'

Alfred feels his stomach drop as the Joker reaches into his pocket to pull out some other toxin in the shape of another, smaller water gun. 'Ngh-' Potter tries to speak but the words doesn’t quite escape Punch's iron grip.

The Joker snaps his fingers and Punch loosens his hold an inch or two. 'Ever so sorry, what was that? Punch got your tongue?'

'Not -' Potter pants. 'Not today.'

The Joker blinks and has just opened his mouth when the impossible happens. Potter grabs onto Punch's shoulders, holds on tight so that when Potter throws his weight down the beast is bent over Potter's slight form. Booted feet stamp onto the ground, and with that miraculous anchorage, Potter manages an over the shoulder throw. It shouldn't have been possible -

The Joker doesn't have time to scramble backwards before he is flattened by his own crony, both unconscious as their heads smash against the concrete from the force Potter manages to apply. Though Potter has undoubted gotten out of that headlock by the grace of god, Alfred thinks that Potter's weak gesturing after is what keeps them faint on the ground. Even if Potter only waves his hand over them for a moment.

The backup the commissioner called can just be heard as Potter stands for a moment, victorious, before the trembling in his legs almost has him toppling over. Master Bruce rushes towards him, most likely in a mixture of trying to help and being needed as Alfred follows close behind.

'Steady,' Master Bruce says as he carefully catches Potter by the tops of his arms. Alfred can see Master Bruce glance at the pile of murder and wickedness, assessing for the spilt second it takes him, before he's readdressing Potter like he never looked away. He leads them back as the police quickly take over, injured or not, from the commissioner's orders.

'Careful of his shoulder, Master Bruce,' Alfred warns as he steps close to his charge's side. Master Bruce gives him a flat look but his hands stay cupped firmly around Potter's arms.

'I think I need to sit down,' Potter says quietly, the rest of his energy sucked out of him. He appears a drooping flower rather than the tiger he has just shown himself to be.

'Of course,' Master Bruce replies agreeably, voice concerned but layered with caution. 'This way.' He leads Potter to one of the park's benches and eases the man down until he is sat, back resting against the wooden planks.

'I do believe that Leslie is going to be a mite irritated when she learns you did not heed her advice to rest,' Alfred finds himself saying while keeping half an eye on the squad cars that come barrelling into the park.

'Or you could jest - just not tell her,' Potter suggests with a weak tilt of his lips, weakly rubbing sweat that starts to trail down from his hairline away with the back of his hand.

'You've met the resident doctor?' Master Bruce asks, fishing for information he can't ask yet with all the present company.

Potter nods and Master Bruce frowns further. 'I -'

'Seems like you've had it pretty rough, son,' the commissioner's voice remarks as he walks into their space from the left. There's a tired curve to the man's spine; quiet, something that he isn't able to combat no matter how strong his shoulders are. It comes from being one of the only things holding their city together for so many years, for having the integrity and honour that so many have tried to rob him of, through attempted deals and payoffs and threats.

Potter's green eyes trail up to the Commissioner, but Alfred has the feeling that he heard the man coming long before he made himself known. 'I think I gave as good as I got.' Potter smirks, tame fire burning in his gaze. 'Thanks for the backup, though.'

The commissioner snorts, knowing how little good he has done in the short moments the confrontation lasted. 'You're stronger than you look.'

'Hah…yeah, I get that a lot,' Potter mutters, shifting minutely and grimacing instantly.

'Try to stay still, the medics are on their way.' The commissioner bends to place a palm flat on Potters injured shoulder but the man barely responds. Alfred probably only notices his intake of breath because he was expecting it.

'Ah, I'm fine. A lie down and I'll be as gone - good, as knew,' Potter responds quickly, obviously not wanting to get tied down in any records in a country he has no place being.

The commissioner looks set to argue and although Alfred knows very little of this man, Potter has gone out of his way to protect a crowd of people he didn't know whilst suffering from wounds that would put him at a disadvantage in combat. He deserves something for his trouble.

'Not to worry, Commissioner, I would prefer my nephew be treated privately,' Alfred intervenes. Master Bruce doesn't bat and eyelash and neither does Potter, who simply inclines his head. Competency is simply glorious. Maybe that's why it is so hard to find.

The commissioner inhales, running his fingers through his hair. 'At least allow yourself to be checked over.' Potter smiles but it isn't agreeable and the commissioner can tell, however he doesn't press the issue as he turns to Master Bruce.

'Commissioner,' Master Bruce sighs, knowing where that look is heading, the man doesn't even need to open his mouth.

'Wayne,' the commissioner returns without his usual tact but then, they have just all suffered the performance of Gotham's psychotic clown, short lived though it was. 'I have to keep insisting, Mister Wayne. You draw these freaks to you like moths to light and we both understand what would happen if anything happened to you. You need some kind of protection detail -'

'Commissioner -' Master Bruce tries to interrupt because the commissioners has no idea how impossible that suggestion really is. However well intentioned, they have been dodging the commissioner's propositions for a long time.

'Actually, that's why I'm here,' Potter cuts in. He has straightened slightly, but he is looking directly at the commissioner as he talks. 'I've just gotten out of the Armed Force and…needed to get away, so Uncle Al offered me a place.'

The Commissioner blinks as Alfred tries not to glance over at Master Bruce or twitch at the nickname. Potter seems to be attempting to help with what he's picked up as a tricky situation. 'You…?'

'Harry Potter,' Potter introduces himself with a worn grin but his gaze is steady. 'Mister Wayne's bodyguard, or I should be, in the next few weeks.'

'This is…a surprise,' the commissioner says as he looks between them. He stares longer than necessary but seems to nod to himself before commenting, somewhat glibly: 'Some interview.'

Potter laughs. 'One extreme to the next is pretty normal for me.'

Stories form in words, hide in conversations. Master Bruce has become particularly good at hearing people's history in ways Alfred knows few people can.

'Military?' the commissioner questions, obviously trying to make a connection with the dog tags hidden beneath Potter's jacket.

'Afraid my file's classified, Commish,' Potter answers with a slow blink and Alfred can tell that he won't be able to keep this up for much longer. 'But I promise I won't cause you half as much trouble as I did for Queen and Country.'

'Son, my daughter tells me that every day.' The commissioner's lips twitch as his officers restrain the Joker and his muscle, dragging the men in to their armed van in the background. It has become so commonplace that it isn't even noteworthy.

Potter snorts but he seems to be sinking further into the bench. 'She sounds angelic.'

The Commissioner huffs in laughter as his pager sounds. Behind the times, that, but the Commissioner likes to keep things. He can be quite a sentimental man. 'Ah. As nice as it is to meet you, I think I've taken up enough of your time. Mister Wayne, I'm glad you've finally decided to start protecting yourself. Mister Potter, thank you for your assistance today, one of my men will be around for your statement soon, but make sure to get some medical attention,' he orders sternly. 'Gentlemen,' he nods as he turns to leave.

Potter sighs, seemingly becoming one with the bench. 'Bodyguard?' Master Bruce questions pointedly glancing between Alfred and Potter, having stayed quiet up until that point and Potter cringes.

'Er…' Potter trails off.

'Well, Mister Potter,' Master Bruce begins as he shrugs off the polite, gormless expression he has been wearing that is just as much a mask as the bat's cowl. 'How funny it is that I wasn't told of an oncoming hire. Please, do introduce yourself.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I lost all semblance of muse half way through. Like, I knew what had to happen in this chapter but - by the time Harry and Alfred were leaving the Clinic my mind sort of shrugged and was like "well that was fun" and left me. It doesn't help that I'm shit at fight scenes. And just about everything else.
> 
> I hope someone managed to enjoy this mess. I have so many ideas but...I'm so bad. Just. I dunno. I wanted to play around with the characters :/. Ugh my brain. I'll admit, too, that the last 4 thousand words haven't been proofread either, I just couldn't bring myself to. I'll have to come back to it when I like myself more. Forgive thy sinner or some shit.
> 
> Proofread: EvilDime


	2. Family Dinner

There is no such thing as a retired soldier; a person can bury their tags and be blind to their scars, but what a soldier inherently  _ is _ becomes rooted in their blood, a whisper in the back of their mind, the instincts seared into their muscles. People forget that, or maybe it is just simpler not to see - or it would be, if not for the fact that every inch of Harry betrays who he is -  _ what  _ he is. 

His dog tags are heavy around his neck, visible over the collar of his civvies. It was the first thing his family glanced at when he came through the Floo, but he can’t deny it anymore than he can deny what remains of the crux burnt into his forehead. Mrs Weasley can barely look at him on a good day and he doesn’t want to make it harder on them; they have been put through enough, but he will not be ambiguous on this.

Ron hasn’t spoken a word to him since he’s arrived, preferring to busy himself with  _ pretending  _ to be busy, rather than making further excuses about the poor state of their relationship. It is transparent but it is what it is. Things have changed since he’s been a kid trying to win a war.

Really, these “family dinners” never go well. Harry wonders why he came.  _ ‘It’ll only be a couple of hours,’  _ Hermione said after cornering him in his office that’s been carved out for him, arms full of documents that she was running through what  _ used to be _ his department.  _ ‘It’ll be a relief for the others to see you,’  _ she continued determinedly after Harry’s first polite refusal.

Uncomfortable is what it is. Is what it has  _ always  _ been since the Battle of Hogwarts. It isn’t really anyone’s fault but it is their new normal, and Harry doesn’t know what can be done. They are all too -  _ fixed  _ on who they are, from what they have suffered. There isn’t any give to that, no matter their intentions or their feelings for each other.

His knees jut uselessly under the dining table as the feeling of unrest continues to set him on edge. The Burrow hasn’t felt like home for a very long time, and even the people are more like strangers.

Speaking of which.

‘So…’ Mrs Weasley smiles but Harry doesn’t need his training with the Unspeakables to see the tightness around her eyes, or to notice how she passes the salad bowl with far more force than necessary. ‘What have you been up to, Harry dear?’

Harry stops himself from shifting in his seat as he glances around at the expectant faces. He sighs, realising this invitation has been a planned interrogation. With all the rumours circulating it’s really no surprise. ‘This and that,’ he replies without inflexion, valiantly ignoring George’s amused snort and Bill’s raised eyebrow. Funnily enough, they are the two people outside of work he has the most contact with. Well, those two idiots and their poor wives and children (and doesn’t  _ that  _ make him feel old).

‘That’s not what she meant,’ Ron grits out and his glare doesn’t go unnoticed either but Hermione’s elbow quickly changes his expression. Oh, the joys of married life.

‘I’m doing good,’ Harry says easily because it’s true enough. He’s had four hours of sleep last night and Kingsley finally signed off on his resignation. Things are alright enough. Heck, he hasn’t been in the papers once in the last couple of weeks, despite the gossip circulating in the Ministry.

‘I - er, great to hear you’re doing…good, mate,’ Ron mutters with a side glance to his wife as if to say: “ _ See? I’m playing nice.” _

‘Thanks, Ron.’ Harry pokes at his plate. The food is the typical Weasley feast. He appreciates the effort, but it is wreaking havoc with his diet and he can’t eat as much as the others. It’s just too fatty, however delicious Mrs Weasley’s cooking is.

‘Yeah. Lookin’ “good”, Hare-Bear,’ George sings smugly from across the table, knowing that he’ll be able to get away with anything for the next two weeks without retaliation or revenge.

Harry glares, his grip tightening around his cutlery to stop himself from casting by mistake. He is wound a bit tight as it is, and it is his own fault for making a bet with George to start with. He should have known better. The twins -  _ George,  _ can’t be trusted on his word alone if it isn’t serious.

That, and George enjoys teasing Harry because he always gives as good as he gets, never handling George with the kid gloves so many others do these days. The Weasleys drew many lines in the sand after the war; picked up and rebuilt, were a force to be reckoned with in the aftermath, and gained themselves a new respect from Wizarding Britain. The saddest thing that they changed is their sense of humour, too worried about triggers or upset.

‘Harry,’ Mrs Weasley addresses him softly and Harry sighs. He never liked where conversations go when she uses that tone. ‘Harry…you know, it’s been ten years now,’ she starts while he prays for strength.

‘Nine,’ Harry corrects blankly as his voice darkens in warning because they may not count the year that Kingsley had to learn house, that the Ministry was practically empty and functioning on trusted volunteers as they undid the damage done by Voldemort; but he did. People all too often liked to gloss over the fact that more than half of the staff had needed to be replaced, a large majority of them having been arrested. No one liked to acknowledge the internal problems.

George loses his smirk, Bill heaves a sigh and Ginny’s face sets itself for the potential fall-out they are sensing. There is some shuffling further down the table and Mrs Weasley’s expression falters. ‘Of course, dear.’ She nods though it looks dismissive. ‘Of course, but - after all this time, don’t you think you should start settling down?’

If he hasn’t heard this a thousand times, he doesn’t know who has. In fact, it is one of the reasons he was so hesitant to visit the Weasleys besides the guilt he faces every time he steps through their door, knowing who he’s failed. The attitude he gets from Ron and the expectations don’t help either.

The Weasleys aren’t the only ones that had expectations after Voldemort’s downfall. All of Wizarding Britain had an opinion on what he should do next, with the majority thinking he’d return to Hogwarts after reconstruction, finish his education, become an Auror and continue his relationship with Ginny, where they’d marry and have a number of Pureblooded children.

He’s done exactly one of these things and no one was all that happy. Weeks after Voldemort’s death, Harry had been set upon by a Death Eater while aiding the work at Hogwarts. Nott had managed to break his arm before Harry downed him in the sea of panicking workers. Kingsley had arrived while Pomfrey was treating him. Attacks like the one Harry had stopped were apparently becoming a trend. Harry had accepted this new information, though he’d been surprised that it’d been kept from the  _ Daily Prophet, _ and when Kingsley offered, he’d accepted a job as one of the few Aurors not imprisoned or being investigated.

Harry had known that he wouldn’t have been able to function as a student again. He would have been a danger at the dorm, especially at night where his terrors woke him up violently; with the crowds that had been putting him on edge for years, he was a safety hazard. Ginny - well, they’d tried. He wishes he’d come out of it with less regrets.

Harry had been quick to climb through the ranks while working primarily to seek out Death Eaters and their affiliates. By the time Ron joined the DMLE, Harry had been his instructor. When Hermione followed them into the Ministry with a legendary CV and a stubbornness to stay away from his department (tempting fate, that), Harry was being promoted to Head Auror.

By the time he reached twenty-one, the Unspeakables were evaluating him and he was inducted as a member. Later that week the papers reported that he had lost his position as Head Auror and was facing disciplinary action after using “excessive force”. With his temper all but infamous, it hadn’t been a hard stretch for anyone to believe it.

His job requires life and limb, and that - that’s  _ normal.  _ To be battered and beaten by his instructor because  _ ‘while we need you, we can’t have you dying on us, Potter. You have to be better. You have to be indestructible,’  _ isn’t so different from Dumbledore’s dogma. To be pushed around and distrusted while he found his way around his coworkers had been like every year at Hogwarts, and to have a house elf drag him home every few nights if he forgets that he needs sleep - okay, that’s a new one, but the sentiment is familiar.

And Harry needs it. He  _ needs _ to be needed _. _

His friends - the Weasleys - are less than pleased with his decisions but Harry doesn’t know how else to be. ‘I  _ am  _ settled, Mrs Weasley,’ Harry replies with emphasis as he starts to feel attacked.

Mrs Weasley isn’t convinced and shakes her head adamantly. ‘No…no, Harry. Stop all this -' she gestures at him vaguely. ‘I know you went through a hard time with that David chap, but you’re halfway through your life -’

‘Stop,’ Harry demands through gritted teeth, using enough force to silence the table. He won’t speak of David and he doesn’t want Mrs Weasley airily talking about him, like it hadn’t turned out to be one of the greatest mistakes Harry has ever made. Bill subtly shifts his chair and Fleur is quick to follow, staring at her mother-in-law with clear disapproval, an almost irritated expression pulling her features into something less refined.

Charlie’s gaze is anywhere but on the table. Percy’s face becomes distinctly pinched and his wife seems uncomfortable while Ginny simply looks pained. Ron and Hermione remain silent, in agreement, but also - mostly on Ron’s part - disinterested. George is challenging thunder as his jaw clenches shut, George who’s been with Harry through most of it, who knows what that betrayal has done to Harry better than anyone.

Of all the things to bring up in front of so many people - family or not. It wasn’t what Harry wanted to have to challenge every time he visited; he  _ wanted  _ to be able to forget, to put it behind him. He understood the difficulty they would face with the choices he made, they’d all lost enough which meant they were fiercely protective of what they had left, but...

‘Misses Weasley,’ Harry begins before he forces himself to stop when Gred’s lips purse, and redirects to something easier to swallow: ‘I’m fine with how things are. I like my job.’

(She didn’t mean to bring David up, she didn’t  _ mean  _ to be insensitive about what’s happened, but that doesn’t help Harry with feeling better about it, even as he reasons through it. He’s had George’s ear mostly through circumstance. He hasn’t  _ told  _ anyone about what really happened, and the papers - what the  _ Daily Prophet  _ had printed…)

‘Harry,’ Hermione says quietly. ‘Don’t you ever think of the dangers? it’s…with how well-known you are…’

As an Unspeakable he’s gotten into even more  _ trouble _ than he’s ever done as an Auror, but he’s never told anyone about his change of title, couldn’t. George suspects, from the few things Harry has hinted at, but he knows better than to ask. (If anyone confronts Harry with the knowledge of his title, he’ll be forced to obliviate them which is something he’d much rather avoid.)

The Unspeakables wanted him because they felt they could use him better than the Aurors could, and having been Muggle-raised he needed less training. Harry’s ability to ignore regulation for the sake of his mission, and his surprising talent with covert work made him even more desirable.

Though, Harry has sometimes wished to be done with the department and the titles, just so he could get at the root of his mission without any more redundant laws making it harder. Wizarding Britain has gotten better since Kingsley took over, but there is only so much you can do with a society that has been  _ founded _ on prejudice.

‘Yeah, mate,’ Ron predictably chimes in despite the hypocrisy. Really, there is little friendship still remaining nowadays and Harry has mourned it long enough. Hurt feelings, broken promises and sore pride aren’t things that go away. They are things that pile up; clutter that no one has room for, but you just aren’t able to throw away. 'You have nothing to prove to no one.’

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. He gets that a lot - people commenting on how he must wish to “relive the glory days”. Every time Harry will snort and think with disgust:  _ What  _ glory? _ All I remember is people dying and how they all bled the same colour. _

‘That’s not why I do the work,’ Harry refutes through gritted teeth as frustration tightens his stomach into a ball of knots. Thankfully, the kids are all with Teddy’s grandma for the evening. Andy has learnt to take them when he visits the Burrow. Smart woman, that one.

Hermione opens her mouth to respond but luckily Mr Weasley cuts in, raising his hands in a placating manner. Harry will never know how the man, so placid, can keep peace with so much fire. ‘Now, now,’ he chides, face strained. ‘This is meant to be dinner. Let’s not chase the boy away.’

Mrs Weasley shoots her husband a look that Harry takes to mean “enjoy the couch!”, and he mustn’t be far off if Mr Weasley’s wince is anything to go by. However, she seems to concede this with a put-upon huff, but looks back to Harry with a pleading gaze. ‘I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. You know how I get.’ And, yes. That probably just makes the situation sadder. ‘But, George tells me you might have some news to share.’

‘Does he now,’ Harry says flatly as he glances at George, who shrugs. He’d have more contact with the Burrow than Harry has, obviously but still not a lot. He was - quiet, now.

‘Mate.’ Ron juts out his chin.

Harry slowly exhales because once he’d taken the job with the Unspeakables, he’d had to become more secretive, lied quite a bit about his missions and created covers, using his Auror uniform as a guise. Ron took it as a betrayal of trust after everything they’ve been through and, if Harry is being honest, Ron appreciated the snark even less. It isn’t all that different to what Ron has to do as an Auror when his mother asks after his day, Harry expected more understanding because in the DMLE if you aren’t saying something, it is because you  _ can’t _ . Secrecy binds are a necessary evil in their line of work.

(And Harry pretends not to have noticed Ron’s discomfort and embarrassment at having his best mate as his instructor and then a superior, but he didn’t forget either. Ron’s lack of anger at his “demotion” was telling too.)

‘I’ve resigned.’

The reaction is immediate.

‘What?’ Mrs Weasley gasps.

Harry shrugs, not feeling the need to explain. Luna had known before he did and Neville had barely blinked at the news, while Malfoy had exclaimed an emphatic “hallelujah”, more than fed up with having to put Harry back together again after particularly bad missions. George, himself, had slumped forward in relief. He hadn’t cared for hows or whys, though those had come later.

‘Oh, but that’s wonderful news!’ Mrs Weasley gushes, looking ecstatic. ‘But - Harry, why didn’t you mention this sooner?’

‘I haven’t had the opportunity,’ Harry replies simply. The arrangements he’s made with Pennyworth have been thorough and tentative, and he’s really only given the higher-ups notice a week ago. He also doesn’t come to the Burrow often, maybe once a month or so.

‘What will you be doing instead?’ Ginny asks in suspicion. Through two failed attempts at dating, she knows him well enough to understand his thought process. She’s been intimate with him during crucial moments, has seen him grow and what better way to aid comprehension than to watch how he got to where he is, on the inside?

‘I’ve got another job lined up,’ Harry states easily.

‘Doing what, dear?’ Mrs Weasley all but demands, leaning forward eagerly though she won’t be that happy for long.

‘Security. I’ve got a position as a bodyguard.’ He waits a second for that to settle in while George shakes his head.

‘Bodyguard?!’ Hermione shouts, face incredulous as she stares at him. She’s been encouraging him to be a teacher for years, saying that he’s more than qualified to teach full-time at Hogwarts, instead of being merely an invited guest. Harry does special lessons on McGonagall’s behest and he likes it well enough, but it isn’t what he wants.

Ron splutters and then chokes, having just swallowed a large forkful of meat when Harry responded. He’s never grown out of inhaling his food, much to Hermione’s disapproval. ‘W-what?’ he gasps out as Hermione claps him on the back.

‘Really?’ Ginny laughs fondly. ‘That…’ she grins, though her eyes are wide with bewilderment. ‘Sorry, that just…doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.’

With the warmth in Ginny’s gaze, Harry remembers how much he misses her. She is gone, out of the country for good portions of the year with her team, so they don’t get to talk much and when they do, it is usually through the press or sparse letters.

‘Things are starting to settle in Wizarding Britain.’ Harry smiles wryly since it is true for the most part. He’s stayed around through a lot of the crap to clean up Voldemort’s mess. ‘I - don’t feel as trapped here as I did, when the war had just ended. It might be good to…travel.’

Travelling had very little to do with it, but he wants to leave this conversation without a confrontation. Despite how much Harry’s relationship with the Weasleys has deteriorated, he doesn’t want to burn any bridges.

Percy hums thoughtfully. ‘Whoever you’ve chosen to work for must certainly be someone,’ he comments without the antagonism that had been present while he’d been working under Fudge. That has been soothed over even if neither of them have ever properly spoken about it. Harry is good with that, he’s only ever really wanted Percy to reconnect with the rest of his family. The things Percy has said - the things he has done, haven’t bothered Harry so much.

‘You could say that,’ he can feel his smile twist into a smirk. ‘He’s definitely not your average billionaire playboy.’

Ron, who’s been concentrating on clearing his airways looks up, obviously startled by the announcement if his gaping mouth is anything to go by. The whole table seems to be taken aback by the statement. Harry religiously ignores George’s raised eyebrow.

_ ‘What?!’  _ Hermione screeches. Harry absentmindedly wonders if being able to scream like a banshee is some kind of requirement for becoming a Weasley woman. Maybe that’s why Mrs Weasley dislikes Fleur so much. ‘You’ll be - be risking your life for some kind of - of  _ man-whore?!’ _

Harry blinks, twice. The times where he can recall Hermione swearing are few and far between. ‘Hermione!’ Mrs Weasley wakes up with a start as she swings to her daughter-in-law. ‘Do not use such  _ vulgar  _ language at the dinner table!’ 

Even with the reprimand, Hermione doesn’t seem the least bit chagrin and instead looks like a feline out for the hunt as she slams her hands onto the table. The decades-old piece of furniture rocks. Fleur’s drink is upended onto the scratched surface and the contents spills out, filling the cracks with red wine. ‘Why?!’ she demands. ‘Part of the reason I accepted you running around trying to play -  _ Superman,  _ was because I knew you had a pathological need to help people, but - but why  _ that  _ kind of person?’

‘“That kind of person”?’ Harry repeats as he watches her, his scrutiny unhidden. Hermione’s cheeks heat but her jaw clenches stubbornly and her eyes narrow in daring. Well, two can play that game. ’I really don’t know what you mean.’

Hermione’s face shifts, hardens. They’ve all changed while they aged. With Ron and Harry - the road they’ve first set on, though it has grown bumpy and ragged, hasn’t changed direction. It isn’t the same, but Harry can see now that where they are now is perhaps where they were always heading. Hermione, her path has shifted and morphed far more than a person could see just by looking at her, or even by hearing her talk.

Hermione has been hardened through discrimination and prejudice that would have seen her family and herself killed in a war that wouldn’t have left anyone untouched. It’s made her less tolerant. ‘If you had to go into that type of work, why not for someone who actually deserves it?’ she demands tightly.

‘And how do you know my client doesn’t?’ Harry enquires, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

‘ _ Harry.’  _ Hermione clenches and unclenches her hands in infuriation, like she is dying to curl her fingers around his neck.

Harry shrugs. It won’t be the first time he’s angered Hermione, it won’t be the last. ‘I owe him and his employee a few favours. They helped me when I accidentally dropped into his neighbourhood on assignment. Got me medical care and let me sleep off my concussion at his place.’

‘ _ You what?’  _ Ron blinks, mouth falling open as his hand pauses in midair, loaded fork drooping.

Harry tilts his head. It doesn’t happened every mission but his getting injured is hardly rare. He is one of the Ministry’s best, but anything can happen in the field, where nothing is a guarantee. ‘Muggle-born had a gun and an agenda. Set off a portkey when I had him cornered and sent me off to America with him.’ Long story short, basically, and short stories are really all he can offer.

It seems to shock the table for those who hadn’t known, anyway. ‘Look, he really isn’t as bad as the press make him out to be… In saying that, I have a hard time thinking many people could be.’ Harry finds himself snorting in derision as he thinks back to his own troubles with reporters, always looking to encourage public outrage. ‘He does a lot of charity work, helps orphanages and the like. Seems like the type who’s a sucker for a sob story.’

‘So… you’re just perfect for the job?’ George grins with his usual level of cheek.

Harry finds himself opening his mouth to respond when Hermione cuts in. ‘Who are you working for, Harry?’

‘…Bruce Wayne,’ Harry says nonchalantly as he leans back, ‘you may have heard of him.’

Hermione blinks. ‘Bruce Wayne.’ The repetition is tinged is shock.  _ ‘Bruce Wayne?!’ _

Harry nods. ‘The very one.’

Ron frowns and is turned towards Hermione, confused as he looks between them. ‘What, you know this guy or something?’ he asks and for the millionth time, Harry marvels at how little the Wizarding World knows about its other half; even an Auror who was made to do a course and oftentimes has to cross over, sounds ignorant.

‘Everyone knows Bruce Wayne,’ Hermione responds with impatience, obviously not seeing the confusion down the ends of the table. She swallows loudly. ‘But, Harry… he’s…’

Harry raises an eyebrow. ‘He’s…?’ he prompts, because he’s certainly not going to make that sentence any easier for her.

Hermione scowls. ‘A  _ muggle _ .’

The whole table takes a shocked breath, bar a couple who’ve already known the details. 

_ ‘What?’  _ Ron demands. ‘What do you mean he’s a muggle?’

Harry shrugs. ‘Oh, well, it’s this word introduced to the Wizarding World’s vernacular during Bloody Mary’s reign, for people without -’

‘ _ Harry!’  _ Ron exclaims, face reddening as Harry holds up his hands. He doesn’t want another shouting match now, if he can get out of this without a fight it will be preferable. Harry isn’t sure how much he’ll be visiting now, with him out of the country soon.

‘Ron, you were there when they introduced those muggle-wizard integration laws.’ Harry sighs and tries to curb his tone so as not to sound so tired. ‘I can work for a muggle, I just have to inform him of what I am and we sign a contract -’

‘Of course I was there!’ Ron shouts, banging his fist against the table and Harry idly starts to wonder how long this particular piece of furniture has left. ‘But you know how dangerous that is -’

Harry huffs. ‘Ron, tell me,’ he interrupts, ‘in the time that that legislation was put through, how many wizards have had to call in for the Unspeakables for clean up? Five. Five instances out of two-hundred and twenty-seven working wizards and witches in three years. I’d classify that as a success.’

Ron sneers. ‘You know how nervous all this legislation is making us, Harry.’

Harry doesn't roll his eyes and that has a lot to do with how annoyed this topic is making him, he’s learnt from having to deal with politics that it isn’t the type of reaction he can demonstrate. ‘The legislation is getting applied for a reason,’ he affirms steadily instead. ‘Our isolation has gotten to be unviable with current technology and unnecessary with the political climate at the minute.’ 

‘You can’t really believe that after the war, Harry!’ 

‘Wizards were just as responsible for what happened with Tom Riddle as the muggles!’

‘Harry,’ George cuts in and Harry takes in an abrupt breath. He exhales slowly and forces himself to relax despite how keyed up he feels.  _ Let it go,  _ George’s gaze communicates. Harry’s lips kiss his teeth, but he tries to swallow his irritation.

How many times had he debated this? How many times had slimy lords who’d never had to fight thrown the Battle of Hogwarts back in his face? It was courtless and it was tasteless. No one was willing to admit what had created Tom Riddle because that meant the Wizarding Britain accepting accountability for problems that, even now, even after all the reforms and new legislation was built into their community.

‘The argument is pointless,’ Harry declares sharply. The metal handles of his cutlery are cutting into his palms; he can’t bring himself to care. ‘We’ve already signed the preliminary contract and I’ll be going back to Wayne Manor this week to finalise the details.’

Ron’s expression is ugly. ‘And he’s okay with the magic, is he?’

Harry narrows his eyes.  _ ‘Yes.’ _

The tension in the air is toxic until Hermione clears her throat. ‘Bruce Wayne,’ she begins but her back is ramrod straight. ‘He lives in Gotham.’

‘…he does,’ Harry confirms agreeably.

‘So… _ you’d _ be living in Gotham,’ Hermione says in askance, for confirmation, but her skin is losing its warmth.

‘Can’t very well do a job across the pond, can I?’ Harry grins, feeling himself soften around the edges at the sight of her concern. It was nice to see something other than edges and closed-off eyes. They spend so much time disagreeing with each other and bumping heads that comradeship has fallen behind.

‘Harry,’ Hermione says slowly as the table as one falls silent in the face of what’s brewing. ‘Gotham has one of the highest crime rates in all of America! As is, America’s shooting statistics are frightening!’

‘I can take care of myself, ‘Mione.’

Hermione’s nose twitches but Mrs Weasley steps in before they can get into  _ that.  _ ‘I’m sorry. Where is Gotham?’ she enquires, but her face might as well be set in stone and Harry knows that she is not happy.

‘It’s in Muggle America,’ Hermione responds tightly. ‘And it is incredibly  _ dangerous.’ _

‘Dangerous?’ Mrs Weasley parrots faintly. ‘Harry, dear -’

Harry sighs. ‘I am going there to work - as a  _ bodyguard.  _ Of course it’ll be because Mister Wayne requires security.’ He doesn’t wait for them to comment and instead jumps in again, with an attempted grin. ‘Besides, ole’ Gotham seems to have a bit of a rodent problem right now, anyway.’

Hermione’s lips set themselves into a thin line though she is the only one who does not look confused. ‘Bats aren’t rodents, Harry,’ she states in exasperation with a brief flutter of her eyelashes - an eye roll. ‘They belong to a completely different family.’

Harry carelessly waves that away; hasn’t been the point. ‘The Batman’s been doing a lot of good in Gotham, it’s at least somewhat protected. Besides, with the training I’ve had, don’t you think I can handle a few guns?’

_ ‘“A few” _ ? There are more guns than  _ people  _ in America,’ Hermione hisses in quiet outrage. ‘Harry, the numbers of criminal activity - it’s unthinkable there. For Christ’s sake, I’ve read articles where the plea “criminally insane” was laughed out of court!’

‘With what the  _ Daily Prophet _ writes about me, I might just fit in.’ The comment is probably a step too far as Hermione’s face flushes a hot red. She’s been fighting with reporters in his regard for years, as he has long since stopped giving a damn but every new article brings about the same hot anger in Hermione as the first.

‘Right,’ Ron cuts in, holding up his hands with his face creased in confusion. ‘Will you two - slow down? What’s a bat-man? Statistics? What’s this about muggles?’

Hermione gesticulates in frustration. ‘Not a what, Ronald, a “he”. He’s a muggle vigilante. The Commissioner - head Auror, there, advocates for Batman, but what the papers write isn’t exactly positive.’

Harry half wonders how Hermione keeps up so much with the Muggle World when she is so rarely apart of it herself, nowadays. Ron isn’t overly keen on integrating with muggles, or even Hermione’s parents. Everything is too - foreign, to him.

‘Sounds familiar,’ George comments with a wry laugh.

‘Harry,’ Hermione readdress urgently, like she has forgotten Ron’s other enquiries. ‘Gotham… Merlin, Harry. Murder, rape, assault, gang violence, the  _ Mafia.  _ There are documentaries on  _ current  _ police corruption, on recent cases of human trafficking - it’s a…a  _ cesspit,  _ for illicit activity! The Foreign Office warns against travelling there, under  _ any  _ circumstances.’

Harry tries not to wince at the varying expressions of  _ Potter-what-the-hell  _ or  _ you’ve-finally-lost-your-mind  _ because, yes, he’s already gotten that impression _.  _ ‘Hermione -’

‘And you -  _ you  _ want to be a  _ bodyguard there.’ _

‘Hermione,’ Harry says gently, ‘if my client wasn’t in danger, he wouldn’t need a bodyguard. And…and I know what I’m getting into. Outside of Batman really making a difference there, I’ve done my research, I promise.’

‘Why are you placing your faith in a vigilant his own city officials wanted to market off as an urban legend?!’ Hermione demands. ‘You keep bringing him up like he’s going to somehow personally protect  _ you  _ as well and you don’t  _ know that,  _ Harry. And  _ don’t  _ think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t explained this sudden change of vocation.’

‘Is - is this vigilante really so important there?’ Mrs Weasley asks. ‘Harry -’

‘Please,’ Harry breathes, food forgotten and a headache on the way. ‘Please, Misses Weasley. I don’t want to get into this. To understand the impact of the Batman in Gotham you really have to visit there.’

‘But -’

‘Can I remind you of this little group called the Order of the Phoenix? Or how Hermione, Ron and I were on the run from the Ministry?’ Harry asks because although Wizarding Britain seems to have forgotten, Harry has always been unable to forget.

Mrs Weasley’s cheeks redden. ‘Well, that was…’

‘Different?’ Harry finishes with a sigh as he pushes his plate away. ‘Different how? And who’re you to say?’

‘I think,’ Mr Weasley says before Ron can snap in his mother’s defence. ‘That perhaps this isn’t the debate for today. We should leave the past in the past and respect each other’s decisions. I do, however, find myself curious why you’ve decided to do this.’

‘Well.’ Harry pauses, feeling something sheepish raise its head in him as the others begrudgingly fall quiet, though he knows - with Hermione, especially - that this is not the last he’ll hear of this. ‘I sort of fell into it.’

He can’t really explain how he’s Portkeyed into the position by accident and then how all parties involved have come together, figured things out and come to an agreement. Harry isn’t sure how long it will last; even with the contract in place covering privacy, Mr Wayne has been awfully cagey. Not much to do about it though; with the Commish personally expecting to see Harry doing a job he needs to be physically present for, and himself all unwilling to admit to the lie as that would require  _ explaining  _ the lie. Harry just has to go along with it for now.

He hears Bill snort. ‘Oh - oh no? You don’t say?’

George snorts. ‘You have to admit Hare-Bear, that you have formidable luck.’ In all the wrong ways, of course. Obviously, this still isn’t something any of them expected, but that’s only because not even  _ Harry  _ could have predicted it. 

‘Is that what they’re calling it now?’ Harry asks glibly.

‘Harry,’ Mrs Weasley insists with a tight face.

‘I’ll Owl you when it’s time for me to leave,’ Harry swears because that’s really the only thing he can say to appease the lady. He’s not getting guilted into doing what she wants. He loves Mrs Wesley and appreciates her for everything she’s done, but this is his life and he has to live it his way.

Mrs Weasley exhales deeply, for however stubborn she is, Harry can be just as hard-headed. ‘Please,’ she says in a way that is somewhat threatening, ‘do that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I've hinted at a lot of stuff in this chapter and that'll be expanded on in later chapters but I just want to say somethings so I don't confused or annoy anyone before then. 
> 
> 1\. This isn't Weasley-bashing, promise. This is a very dysfunctional family with people who can't agree with one another but that doesn't mean there isn't love. They do, that's why they're still trying. 
> 
> 2\. Muggle-Wizard Integration Laws are slowly being pushed in due to how close to detection the community is with technology how it is and also, superheroes. It wouldn't be perfect but having the Wizarding World hidden with everything else there just doesn't make sense, so muggleborns have been trying to bridge the gap. Not everyone is very happy with that. 
> 
> 3\. I've always seen book-Harry as a sarcastic little punk with a heart of gold, if he came off us unlikeable in this chapter than I'm sorry :/. He's trying his best but he's very worn down at the minute. 
> 
> 4\. Oh! Dog tags, aurors and unspeakables are given them as they /are/ actually apart of the armed forces (the Queen knows and sanctions them). Also, it makes them easier to identify should a wizard become injured on a mission or die, allowing muggles to know who they are. It also allows wizards a cover story. 
> 
> So, yeah. That's it. Hope this was enjoyable. More stuff with Bruce next chapter. More stuff should happen there, this was really exposition to further introduce you guys into this world. So for the length of these notes, too.
> 
> Proofread: EvilDime


	3. A Balancing Act

‘You just - picked him up off of the street?’ Bruce asks, eyebrow raised as he helps Potter up the steps of the mansion. He seemed to need more concentration for this than he did fighting the Joker. Bruce knew better than to find amusement in that. It was more than simple survival instinct; that was training and lifestyle at work, that kept Potter moving, kept him strong. 

‘My apologises, Master Bruce,’ Alfred says as he goes ahead to unlock the door for them. They are quick to usher their guest inside, as unsteady as he is it was a surprise he was moving at all. ‘I admit I felt responsible for him after holding a compress onto his bullet hole.’ 

Potter snorts but doesn’t comment straightaway as Bruce leads him straight to the living room, depositing him into one of their leather armchairs, near the unlit fireplace. Bruce makes not of the injury; something more serious than he had expected though for Alfred to feel compelled enough to take him to Leslie, it shouldn’t have been.

‘It was certainly a bonding experience,’ Potter says as he shifts lightly against the cushions behind him. Bruce tries not to hesitate before taking a seat opposite.

‘Quite.’ Alfred watches the both of them for a moment. ’May I offer you gentlemen a spot of tea?’ he asks, as courteous as ever. Bruce hadn’t gotten a handle of the situation yet so he wasn’t entirely sure how to react. Potter had proven himself to be of the good sorts at least, but Bruce still couldn’t help but find the situation suspect.

Bruce also has to consider the time. ‘Coffee for me, Alfred,’ he concedes to eventually, settling  himself back as he staples his fingers in his lap. However wary of leaving the manor with Alfred alone after offering Potter to stay the night, he still had patrol to ensure there was no power vacuum after the Joker’s arrest. It was always pretty quiet after one of the bigger names got taken down, but you could never be too careful.

Alfred shows no signs of surprise. ’And Mister Potter?’ 

Potter seems to startle, eyes somewhat unfocused. Bruce was aware of the seriousness of head wounds and would ordinarily have already sent a guest suffering on to bed, but he needed to attain the threat level first. ’…Tea would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Not at all, sir. Earl Grey?’ 

Potter grins, roguish. ‘A man after my own heart.’

Alfred doesn’t so much as blink as he nods. ‘Very good, sir.’ With that, Alfred turns on his heel neatly and leaves to go and prepare the drinks.

‘So, Mister Potter…’ Bruce trails off, watchful as green eyes turn back to him. He’d admit to never seeing eyes quite like them but they weren’t what was raising his heckles. There was something just a bit…off about this man. Not something inherently dangerous, but…off. Not quite ”normal.”

Potter hums. ‘I can tell you want to ask questions, that’s fine. Unless, you don’t know where to start.’ Intuitive, quick-witted, that was Bruce’s immediate impression. Not unlikeable traits but dangerous in the wrong hands.

This would be so much easier as Batman. ‘Well, it’s not very day someone proactively volunteers to act as my bodyguard after getting attacked by one of this city’s most deranged criminals.’ He laughs, guileless but Potter’s face stays straight, unwavering. 

‘I suppose that’s usually enough to though - throw anyone,’ Potter acknowledges after a quick correction that isn’t enough to make him stumble. There is doubt in his tone, like that statement cannot be applied to Bruce. That it should not. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mister Wayne. I’m afraid it’s become somewhat of a habit for me to stick my nose into other people’s business.’ 

‘That’s some habit,’ Bruce comments drily.

Potter inclines his head in agreement. ‘Eh, my best friend likes to say I have a “people saving thing” but I've heard enough of her muttering to know that it was recently upgraded. So it seems like my condition is only worsening with age. You’ll have to forgive me.’ 

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how to take this man’s sense of humour. ‘You have to understand my continued confusion.’ 

Potter blinks slow, like keeping his eyes open is a struggle he is losing. ‘Yes, of course, but I haven’t much to lessen it. I am a creature of instinct, Mister Wayne. I can’t really offer it anything more than that.’ 

Bruce tilts his head. ‘Instinct?’ he tries not to allow his scepticism show but it was clear in his voice and the uneven smirk Potter responds with. 

‘The very sum of my parts,’ Potter says agreeably, almost amicably if it weren’t for the hint of mocking in his tone - perhaps, something self-deprecating. 

‘That’s not quite all, is it, sir?’ Alfred interjects as he reenters the room with a tray laden with a large coffee mug, a tea pot and its assortments and a plate of cookies. Curiously, Potter seems to move as if to get up, to offer aid before stilling himself.

Potter glances between them. ‘Ah, well, I was trying to discern whether he would know.’

Alfred’s face remains flat as he lowers the the tray onto the coffee table, arranging the drinks in front of the respective recipients. ‘I was technically awarded custody some years ago.’

‘Ah. Right, so: family rights.’ Potter nods and Bruce tries to mute his impatience. ‘Your family and my host, that’s more than enough.’ The muttering is soft but with how unsteady the man was, even sat, it wasn’t all that surprising. 

Still, Bruce wasn’t quite prepared for the man to turn to Bruce and ask: ‘you know of magic, then?’ 

Bruce stills the panic in his stomach, the instinct to lash out as one of Batman’s more unconventional tidbits of knowledge strays right into Bruce Wayne’s lap. But Alfred had prompted this, so instead he inclines his head and goes to pick up his coffee. 

‘I did not speak of my family very often so Master Wayne is quite ignorant of the Wizarding World,’ Alfred speaks up as he makes up Potter’s tea for him. ‘I told him of my family and how I am a squib, but he does not know much more than that as _I_ do not know much more than that.’ 

A good excuse; a _great_ excuse for Bruce Wayne to have knowledge of the supernatural. It was, after all his introduction into that side of life so it wasn’t exactly a lie. ‘I see,’ Potter says lightly.

‘Milk? Sugar?’ Alfred asks despite the conversation. 

‘Milk, please,’ Potter replies politely but he is slow to pick the cup up, even with the saucer. When he does it’s obvious why, with how shaky his hands are. 

‘I assume you have magic?’ Bruce enquires without comment. He didn't think Potter would appreciate it.

‘Yes, I’m a wizard; a half-blood,’ Potter says as he lifts he cup to his lips under Alfred’s sharp supervision. ‘I understand any reservations you may have because of my - status, however, my ending up here is solely accidental.’ 

‘Most would say it was a coincidence,’ Bruce comments as he sips at his own coffee. 

Potter hums. ‘I’ve been told before that there is no such thing as coincidences, just inevitability. But if it would make you feel better to think of it as a coincidence, then sure.’ 

‘I do believe Master Bruce was attempting to subtly ask for how you came to be here,’ Alfred explains blandly.

‘I’m guessing you don’t mean your home,’ Potter states with a degree of cheek that Bruce was unused to. He sighs then. ‘I’m an auror; the equivalent to a policeman. I was on a case when the perp tried to flee via a portkey.’

‘A portkey?’ Bruce repeats as he absorbs this knowledge in his stride. 

‘A teleportation device.’ Potter shrugs, forgetting himself before he winces in discomfort. ‘I had just enough time to grab hold of him before he activated it. Luckily it was a carry-on or I would have rebounded something nasty.’

‘Which was better than the beating you acquired because it did not, in fact, rebound?’ Alfred enquires cynically. If by beating, he was referring to the bullet wound than Bruce couldn’t help but agree. 

‘It’s all relative,’ Potter responds dismissively. ‘The advantage to tagging along is that I know where he’s hiding so I can put out a BOLO to the - er, American Ministry. It’s gonna be one huge headache but…’ Potter pauses, jaw clenching and his eyes darkening. Bruce’s hair stands up on end. ‘You don’t do that to kids. Just -’ Potter cuts himself up abruptly, gently placing the china back onto the coffee table, like he didn’t trust himself with it. He coughs. ‘I’m sorry. The case as been…unpleasant.’ 

‘He got away?’ Bruce asks though he knows the answer.

‘Not for long,’ Potter swears and in this, Bruce can trust. He can trust in this reaction, at the very least. You couldn’t easily fake that, however uncomfortable the supernatural made Bruce, he had enough training even if wizards were a different sort to those like Zatanna, magi. 

‘It’s probably farfetched,’ Potter concedes sincerely. ‘And I can’t explain why I lied to the Commissioner like I did, but I hope my appearance at all makes sense now. I can’t really give you anymore than that, I know certainly I’ve already said too much.’ 

Sincerely. Honestly. _Right_. Bruce sighs. ‘You can still stay the night,’ Bruce allows. ‘Is there anyway for you to contact your - office? Or anyone at all while we’re on the subject? I already suppose you can’t get home at the moment.’ 

Potter snorts then. ‘Let’s just say if you think the TSA is bad for muggles you have no idea how complicated it is for wizards to enter America.’ He drags through his hair, tugging on knots and tangles that had no doubt happened during the fights he had entered into. ‘I’m honestly in enough trouble with the situation, getting back to England is…well. It’s not your problem.’ 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. ‘I disagree. You are, after all a guest now.’ It wasn’t his business at all and he couldn’t interfere too much, not as Bruce Wayne but he’d offer as much support as Potter needed. ’We can discuss more in the morning, when you’re hopefully less concussed.’ 

Potter nods. ‘Right, thanks.’ He smiles then, strained but more open than his other more playful expressions. ‘I do need to contact someone, though,’ he says as he tugs what must be a wand out of his sleeve. ‘Would you mind?’ 

‘…no.’ 

‘Expecto patronum,’ Potter incites with a flourish of his wand. If there was any doubt about Potter’s authenticity, there isn’t when a celestial stag emerges from the light that mists from the point of the polished wood. The incorporeal animal turns its neck to Potter’s direction after surveying the room.

Whatever spell this is, Bruce doesn’t sense any danger from it. In fact, it’s almost calming. From the bits of Latin he had learnt, it was some kind of protector; a calling for one, maybe. It was certainly beautiful. 

‘Prongs,’ Potter addresses softly as his face is brightened with the glow from the stag. ‘Take a message to…my commander: there was an issue with a portkey when I went to apprehend the suspect. I’m in muggle America and the perp has absconded. I’ve had to seek medical attention but will report to MACUSA in the morning to handle the paperwork.’

Potter’s voice had been professional, tight but strong without a hint of that character which shined through the tiredness and the pain. As soon as “Prongs” was satisfied Potter was finished, it started to gallop towards the far wall which it phrased through, presumably on its way to England. Potter sighs. ‘Right, that’s done. I appreciate this. Especially when I…feel like I’ve put you into a bit of a position with the Commish.’ 

‘Honestly?’ Bruce says tiredly. ‘Yes, you have.’ 

Potter cringes, having the decency to look contrite at the very least. ‘Of course I have,’ he mutters into his palms as he rubs his face. ‘You could just…say we got into a disagreement.’

Bruce folds his arms, though he was glad Potter didn’t ask _why_ this was such an issue. ‘Over what?’ 

Potter hesitates. ‘…your lifestyle?’ He sounds like he’s fishing, like he has absolutely no idea what he’s saying. Living in a separate community, it wouldn’t be a surprise Bruce if he _didn’t_ know Bruce’s reputation.

Bruce can’t help but huff a bit. ‘Something you would have already been aware of, with your apparent relation to my butler and the press. Try again.’

‘Look.’ Potter holds out a hand. ‘I can see this being a problem. So, tomorrow, I’ll pay the Commissioner a visit and obliviate him. It’s harmless and will make whatever issues I’ve caused - well. Vanish, with the memory.’

_Latin,_ Bruce knows. It wasn’t quite what he was used to but then different cultural, different magic. ‘Can’t you get into trouble for that?’ 

Potter barely looked thoughtful. ‘There are some pretty tight legislation about magic-use on a muggle but for forgetful charms…well.’ The man gestures weakly but Bruce gets the picture. ‘Besides, if I get pulled up on it, I can just connect it to my investigation. Law enforcement get a lot of leeway on top of the blind eye the Ministry will usually turn.’

Potter sounded pretty caustic when he said that. Bruce can’t say he likes the sound of it himself. It's a perfect example of why he's so cautious. ‘Well, if it’s so easy,’ he says in jest.

‘The Commish is the only one who knows and we won’t need an accuse if the only one who does, can’t remember.’ 

It was certainly convenient. ‘…and the Commissioner will have no other adverse affects?’ Bruce asks because if there was any danger at all then he simply couldn’t risk it.

Potter shook his head. ‘No. Aurors are trained to perform the obliviate and it’s common to use on muggles to uphold the Statute. I can swear it, if you like but…in the morning, please? My head is…thumping.’

Which was probably putting it mildly. ‘Of course, I’m sorry to keep you up for so long,’ Bruce says and he was, to a degree, however necessary it was. ‘Do you need any tylenol?’

Potter frowned as if confused. ‘Paracetamol is England’s drug of choice, Master Bruce,’ Alfred informs him. ‘I can get you some if you’d like, sir.’ 

‘Ah,’ Potter says in understanding. ‘No. Thank you. I can’t…take muggle medication. Things tend to explode, and not in the fun way. Or, you know, overdose and explosions. Either way, I’ll have to refuse.’

Bruce raises from his chair as Potter does. ‘Then…how do your people treat pain?’ 

‘Potions and salves, mostly,’ Potter replies as Bruce begins to guide the man wordlessly to one of their rooms. ‘There’s pain potions or soothing dittany but I didn’t pack for this impromptu trip.’ 

‘Sounds useful in the field,’ Bruce observes, especially if their community really was so limited in what they could treat themselves with. 

‘They - are,’ Potter agrees. ‘But, we have magic. We can typically travel pretty quick. We’re not as limited as muggles are in that regard. Even so, some do - carry options but it’s…’ Potter stumbles on the stairs when they reach it. Bruce is just glad that the man is so much shorter, so Bruce can aid him without it appearing out of the ordinary. 

‘It’s?’ Bruce prompts even if he’s only listening with half an ear. He mainly wanted to keep the man awake until they reached the guest’s room. With how heavily Potter was leaning against Bruce, he’d be lucky. It’d certainly be close.

‘Difficult. They train you to be prepared but…you also shouldn’t carry too much. In the end it’s just recommended to have the basics. Mine didn't arrive in the same condition.’ Again, as Potter talks, Alfred slips in front of them. Walking on ahead to open one of the manor’s many spare bedrooms. ‘Fascinating, I know.’

‘Truly.’ Bruce shifts Potter’s weight to get them over the last stair and to carry them down the hallway. It was silent as the entered the reasonably sized bedroom, Alfred having already shifted the covers back so Bruce can easy the man onto the mattress. Alfred is quick to round the bed to pull Potter’s shoes off. After that the jacket and belt are soon to follow.

Potter’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow. Bruce pulls the duvet up over him before leaving quietly with Alfred, returning down the staircase at a much quicker pace. ‘You sure know how to pick them,’ Bruce states.

‘I’m quite sure I do not know what you mean,’ Alfred parries.

‘Of course.’ He’s already taking himself to the grandfather clock. ‘Check in on him?’

‘As you say, Master Bruce.’ 

* * *

Harry woke up slowly, stiff with his body thrumming with pain. He was warm though, and the bed he was laying on was firm but soft. It was the most comfortable bed he’d used, competing easily with the one Sirius had allowed him to use and that he had kept once he had moved into Grimmauld Place.

His mind goes back to the night that had weighed heavily on him then as the memory does. Harry called allowing himself to be corralled here, and after a brief hazy investigation had led him to this room. Harry had fallen asleep quickly, though he recalls faintly that Pennyworth may have woken him a few times during the blackout unconsciousness he had fallen into. 

Harry gets himself up, shifting his legs out of the silken sheets. He feels grimy and wished for a shower. A change of clothes, too. He grimaced but forced himself to his feet while trying to ignore the pulling on his wound and how heavy his head was now that he was upright.

Reaching the door, he peers out of it once he’s cracked it open. The hallway had doorways branching out along its length, laid in plush carpet and dressed with quality looking wallpaper. Even the ceiling was decorated with a crystal chandelier. Harry blinks but its been years since the cupboard and he wasn’t as intimidated by nice things as he once was. 

He walks out quietly, closing the door behind him and steps out to navigate to the grand staircase. Harry is sure to grasp hold of the railing as his socked feet plop downward back to the first floor. Halfway, Pennyworth appears around the corner as if he’s summoned by chivalry. Light blue eyes observe him and Harry sees things he managed to miss yesterday. 

Mid-forties to mid-fifties, dark thinning hair, an almost gaunt face with an austere penguin suit. Pennyworth was almost - stereotypical. Hermione would have a field day. ‘Good morning, sir. It’s a relief to see you up. How’re you feeling?’ the man enquires as Harry reaches him. 

‘Like I got shot and pistol-whipped,’ Harry responds idly to Pennyworth’s impassive expression. ‘Thank you for your help yesterday.’

‘Yes, well, you hardly made it easy for me,’ Pennyworth reprimands and it’s enough for Harry to feel half his age. ‘Follow me, sir. I’ve already begun preparation for breakfast. Master Bruce will be down in a minute, he’s just getting dressed.’

Harry follows, feet padding along into the kitchen where Pennyworth is quick to pull out a chair for him. He’d like to offer to help but his body all but slumps into the wooden seat. He almost sighs in relieve and nearly doesn’t notice when a cup of tea is place in front of him. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘You are welcome, Mister Potter.’ 

Harry glances at Pennyworth from the almost quaint table at the side of the kitchen. ‘Harry, please.’ 

‘Of course, Mister Potter.’

Harry snorts but almost chokes when he senses someone coming up from behind him. ‘Morning, Mister Potter,’ Wayne greets as he rounds the table to sit opposite him. Harry wets his lips and takes a breath.

‘Mister Wayne.’ Black hair, pale skin, bright blue eyes and built like a conservative bodybuilder; this man was certainly attention grabbing. Probably with some fighting experience, too, if he was able to sneak up on Harry unaware. ‘Call me Harry, please.’ 

‘Not one for formality,’ Wayne assumes as Pennyworth hands him what could modestly be called a bucket of coffee. Harry had gotten better at it but honestly, the only one’s who called him that were reporters.

‘If you want to be technical, I would be Auror Potter,’ Harry states. ‘But, yeah, I’d rather forego all that if it’s all the same to you. I’ve already bled all over one of you.’ 

Wayne smirks though the skin under his eyes is creased with what appeared to be frustration. Harry didn’t even get the chance to ask before a phone was slid across the table. He tenses and eyes the device and its bright screen for a moment. ‘I feel like I should warn you that technology and magic don’t mix’ 

‘At all?’ Wayne asks, almost scoffing. 

Harry pauses as he looks at the man’s aspect, examines his stress before picking the phone up. Careful with how his fingers grip the casing. These things are expensive and he doesn’t have a lot in the way of muggle currency at the moment. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t,’ he mutters as his gaze flickers over the screen. 

Harry stills at what must’ve been an article displayed. 

> **“Bruce Wayne’s Bodyguard Stops Joker and Cohorts”**
> 
> **| Jessie LancePosted:** _Yesterday, 11:32_

‘The Obliviate is off the table.’

Harry looks up, reaching over to place the phone in the centre of the table. Wayne is quick to turn it off and repacked it. ‘…yes,’ Harry agrees. 

‘Unless there’s a way to cast that spell on the world and delete the internet.’ Wayne is being hyperbolic and Harry can’t even appreciate it because he’s caused such a _mess._

Harry’s face is deadpanned enough though. ‘I’m not sure which of those is more impossible.’

Wayne holds up his hands. ‘Just checking.’

Pennyworth is plating up breakfast but Wayne’s gaze doesn’t shift and it is intense. He’s waiting for something and Harry isn’t quite sure what it is. ‘I…don’t know what else to suggest.’

Wayne nods. ‘I see.’

Uncomfortable now, Harry runs his tongue over his teeth and suddenly remembers it’s been awhile since he’s been able to brush them. ‘How long do you suppose it’ll take for this to blow over?’

Wayne looks up to the ceiling, as if considering. ‘Depending on how outrageously I behave? Six months, maybe.’

 _Hm._ The man had a lot more self-awareness than Harry thought he might have. Harry was British though, and although Bruce Wayne was world famous, he hadn't heard much about the billionaire. ‘Well, it’s a bit forward of me but I could offer my service to you during that time.’ He wasn’t truly expecting Wayne to look completive of Harry’s offer. Not that Harry wasn’t sincere. If that’s what Harry had to do than that’s what he had to do. His job was always waiting for him and it wasn’t really much of an inconvenience.

‘…if it helps,’ Harry says, ‘I can have a magical contract drawn up to ensure confidentiality and any other duties you’d want to include.’

Wayne learns forward. ‘And it would be binding?’

Harry inclines his head. ‘I wouldn’t be able to deliberately or even in some instances,  _unintentionally_ go against it.’

Wayne hums. ‘Because of your magic.’

It’s not a question but Harry nods anyway. ‘I’ll have a solicitor draw it up - tomorrow?’ He should be able to get someone here that quickly.

Wayne straightens. ‘Alright,’ he agrees. ‘Will you be able to return to England today or do you need a place to stay?’

Harry hesitates. ‘I have to pay a visit to MACUSA after - breakfast.’ Leaving now, with Pennyworth setting a plate in front of him would be rude and a waste of perfectly good food. ‘Er, the American Ministry.’

‘I gathered.’

‘Right, well.’ Harry shrugs a hand through his hair and knows he’s in a desperate need of a brush. ‘I’ll head there. They probably won’t be happy with the situation but I still need to find this perp if he hasn’t been brought in; can’t cause an intentional incident. Once I’ve finished my business and obtained him, I’ll return if I haven’t outworn my welcome.’

‘You’re very confident,’ Wayne observes.

Harry grins lopsidedly. ‘I am very good at my job.’

Wayne laughs but its thin and Harry has to consider why every time he looks at this man it’s like staring through strained glass. ‘Just remember to pick up your jacket from your room before you leave. You’re less impressive once you see the holes.’

Harry looks down at himself to see that, yes, he had lost some choice items of clothing since last night. Items he hadn’t quite clicked into realising he was without them. ‘I’ll…keep that in mind.’

‘Please, do eat up gentlemen,’ Alfred chides as their meals go cold in front of them. ‘By the sounds of it you both have busy days ahead of you and you shan't be allowed to leave until your plates are empty.’

* * *

Potter leaves for MACUSA with a crack and vanishes like he was never there. Bruce allows the smile on his face to fade into something more calculating as Alfred refills his cup with coffee to get him through the day. 'Are you sure this is wise, Master Bruce?' Alfred asks. 

'I spoke with Zatanna last night,' Bruce says, 'and he wasn't lying. If we can negotiate a good enough contract than it'll be safe to keep him around.' However much Bruce wasn't keen on the idea, to opening his house and his life to a stranger, even one with good intentions. There wasn't anything he could really do with the news of a bodyguard already circulating. 

'And Auror Potter personally?' Alfred would have his own opinions and he typically had a good sense when it came to people.

Brice looks down to the mug he has picked up in hands he's tried his best to keep unmarred with his nighttime activities. 'She knew of him,' he confirms. 'Sounds like many will. He's a child soldier.'

'Master Bruce...' Alfred's voice is shocked and Bruce doesn't look up to him. 'In England?' 

'His parents were killed in a war.' Bruce's tongue feels heavier saying that, clumsier than it should after so many years, and so many more tragedies. 'Zatanna said...' 

'Master Bruce?' 

'She said that he was powerful, but that she hadn't heard a bad word about him from anyone that mattered. He does good work and is responsible for saving not only a world of people, but many more lives afterwards.' Bruce pauses and forces himself to take another sip. 'Harry Potter...no wonder the name sounded familiar.' 

'We have a celebrity on our hands?' 

'Seems to be,' Bruce confirms.

'...and you're going to play along with this anyway?' 

'For the time being.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I had a fun time with some of the dialogue in this chapter and I now know the development I need to take for the next 2-3 which is something! Progress! :3


	4. Potions and Bets

Thomas Acker was not the strongest opponent Harry had ever faced. In all honestly, he wasn’t even close. His actions were fuelled through anger and desperation and not much else. He had gotten the drop on Harry and his partner through sheer dumb luck and that wasn’t from a false sense of modesty on Harry’s part. He crimes were disgusting and remembering even half of what the bastard was wanted for overpowered the after taste of Pennyworth’s cooking, twisting the remnants of breakfast into something toxic. 

Acker was a despicable person and a waste of flesh but the reason why the Unspeakables were involved at all were for his connections, not his crimes. _Very_ involved. Harry had been nearing MACUSA’s entrance when he had finally gotten his Commander’s response, because while the Patronus was convenient, it wasn’t quick. The message was a demand for immediate retrieval. In other words, _“save the politics for the aurors and do your bloody job, Potter!”_

It hadn’t taken long for Harry to about turn from where he had been headed to restart his hunt. He should be asking for permission to work on American terrain; they didn’t appreciate foreign governments working on their soil without it. Harry knew this but he also didn’t answer to MACUSA. If the Commander wasn’t scared of the fall out, well, it wasn’t down to Harry’s judgement. That he enjoyed some diplomatic immunity helped.

Luckily, it didn’t take long to track Acker down. He was amateurish at best at concealing his magical signature. Subduing him was more of an effort but not by much. By lunch time Harry had his perp under arrest and trapped in a containment hex developed solely for the DMLE use. It was the safest way to transport criminals though the ethics of the hex had been argued a number of times, from a number of mouths that had never had to place value on a life; from people who had never had to weigh risks, who had never had the chance of a civilian getting hurt by the possibility that a criminal got free.

The containment hex wrapped it’s victim inside a dimensional pocket, or so it was theorised. Not many were terribly clear on how it worked, just that it _did._ Harry, himself, preferred not to think about it. Not that it wasn’t a concern, just that the longer he had worked for the DMLE, the more righteous conduct faded in favour of practicality. Acker may be in distress from the hex but it wouldn’t physically harm in and that was enough for Harry.

It wasn’t long after that Harry was breezing past MACUSA security and heading straight for the receptionist positioned at the front desk. Gloria Nawabi, Harry had first met years ago, now in her mid-fifties and a retired auror. Retired after her wand arm was ruined on a mission and she was deemed no longer fit for duty. She had sharp eyes and a solid equanimity.

Gloria picked him out from the masses; from all her colleagues milling about with something to do. Her eyebrow raises as she recognises him but she stays otherwise unaffected. Gloria was someone who was hard to fluster. It’s something that he had always liked about her.

‘Agent Potter,’ Gloria greets upon his reaching her but it’s more of a demand while using a facade of politeness that he had yet seen crack. “Agent” instead of his actual title as he was a foreign worker, a common practice between governments and their public servants. 

_Why are you here?_ is silent between them, left unsaid. No paper work would be there for him, least not yet if the Commander bothered with it at all this late in the game. Harry knew the process; officially having visited a number of times. He could find his way to any department, recognised the workers and had some understanding for their schedule. 

Harry had one of the better relationships with MACUSA, in or out of his Unspeakable robes. Whether that was down to how unconventional Harry was or the history his family held here, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t much to brag about considering the state of their alliance.

‘Gloria,’ Harry says with a smile. He is tentative on his feet but he doesn’t feel like having that exploited today. ‘I assure you my being here is as unexpected for me as it is for you.’

Gloria was not stereotypically intimidating at only five feet, four inches with a relatively slight frame, however athletic. She had a presence though, an air of quiet strength that followed everything she did. From the reports Harry had read about her (because he was an Unspeakable and an aspect of his job was being intrusive), she was impressive. 

‘I haven’t missed a memo, I assume.’ This was a courtesy. From their every interaction Gloria had proven herself to be scarily competent. 

Harry leans against her desk in some semblance of nonchalance though really it was to hide his weak knees. ‘Afraid not,’ he responds. 

Gloria inclines her head. ‘Then, Agent, how did you come to be on American soil?’ she asks in all her official capacity. It was a thing Harry played along with in measurements. ‘I would like to remind you that you are a representative between our countries and while that allows certain amenities it may have impacts or be brought up in future meetings, discussions or trade deals.’

Harry doesn’t snort because he’s not that much of a prat. It is a close call though. ‘I understand,’ he says and he did but that didn’t mean he didn’t find it ridiculous. ‘I had a 10-29f. Committed a code 243b before he deployed the use of an illegal portkey. I now have him in containment.’ 

Gloria’s eyes flickered over him and lingered over the bandages wrapped around his head, which he had considered removing. ‘Damages?’

Harry didn’t wince as he replied with a clear: ‘unknown.’ He had lost track of Acker for _hours_ after all, and there was no responsible way of hiding that. 

‘You’ll consent to a written report?’

‘Sign, sealed and delivered before I leave,’ Harry promises though he’d really rather not. The most tedious part of his job was the paperwork. It was even worse when it was for other countries and his chicken scratch handwriting and vague bullshitting wasn’t good enough to pass.

Gloria raised a single eyebrow. ‘I suppose you’ll be needing the use of our holding cells, as well as a department head?’ 

Harry smiled even if he’d forego the whole mess entirely if he could. ‘If you please.’

Gloria sighed but she finished writing her message on the enchanted paper in front of her, and with a wave of her rune pen it folded itself neatly into the form of a bird. Harry watched idly as it flew off. ‘Harry,’ she prompts once she’s done, tone lighter if not wearier.

‘I know,’ Harry exhales, holding up a hand.

If Gloria wasn’t so composed she’d be pinching the bridge of her nose. As is, she closes her eyes for a moment too long. ‘How do you manage this?’ 

Harry swallows. That was the question, wasn’t it? ‘I am what I am,’ he laughs because this was fine. Even when it wasn’t. He hated himself for feeling even the least part bitter for the direction of his life, because he had chosen this life. These were _his_ choices. 

Gloria’s brow creases, unobscured by a middle parting in her long, dark hair. She sense the changing track of their short conversation and hesitates. ‘…procedure is doing a killing on you.’ 

Harry snorts. ‘Aw, come on. What’s a bit of paperwork between allies?’ Hyperbolical, of course. The short answer: a lot. Harry got a certain amount of leeway as his occasional stints as a representative, his status in England and his surname. Otherwise, there was little love lost between England and America, however much their “special relationship” was professed. This could cause an uncomfortable tension between their two governments.

Gloria gives a short shake of her head. ‘I can feel the grey hair starting to grow, Potter, and you aren’t even one of ours.’ Receptionists dealt with a lot of crap. _He’d_ handed her a lot of crap. Harry didn’t blame her for her exasperation.

‘You have nothing on me, Agent Nawabi. In full knowledge of the law, I understand that me doing my job does not make me responsible for any emotional distress that may occur.’

Gloria’s eyes narrow in mock scorn as she learns forward to jab her pen in Harry’s direction. ‘ _Yet,’_ she states. ‘There’s a petition going around just for you.’ 

‘I feel honoured.’ Harry smirks, hand over his chest. Gloria rolls her eyes with a snort as she gestures for the two aurors guarding the area forward. He doesn’t remember them as well as Gloria, not with the shifts so frequent. 

‘Everything alright over here?’ the tallest one asks uncertainly.

‘Of course,’ Harry responds blithely even while palming his wand. ‘I have a perp in need of lockup until we can send him back across the pond. You gentlemen up for the task?’

The shorter auror frowns. ‘Status?’

‘Unarmed,’ Harry reassures while slowly drawing his wand. Americans were too quick to fight, the exact opposite back home even if England was better known for its duelists. It made Harry warier than he otherwise should be as he pulled a bound and shaking Acker from the pocket he’d been held up in. Space ruptures and the air shakes as Acker tumbles to the floor, seemingly from nowhere. ‘I’ll send the office his paperwork if it’s needed after my telling off.’ 

The aurors blink at his display, while the spell was more or less pretty common in Europe it was less so in America. They argued over the ethics of it even while their fatality numbers were one of the highest in the world. That, and it wasn’t easy holding the spell in place for a long period of time, which probably made Harry’s causal use seem somewhat unusual. 

‘Thomas Acker,’ Harry inform them as he gets Acker off of the ground and forcing the man to his feet. One of his victims while seriously injured and in unimaginable pain had managed to stumble away to get help, putting the location of where they had been left to bleed to death behind them. If they could accomplish that, than Acker could bloody well carry his own damn weight. 

The tallest auror nods, wand in hand as he takes Acker’s arm in a tight grip. Bastard was already in cuffs so there wasn’t much else to do but dump him in a cell. ‘Right, got it,’ he says as he glances from Acker to Harry. ‘Should we inform the Ministry that we have him in our custody for the time being?’ 

‘Only if you promise not to lose him,’ Harry says with a smirk. Honestly, the Ministry would be the last to know about his gaunt to the States. His orders passed through the Unspeakables to the proper channels for an auror so identities remained hidden. 

The shorter auror snorts. ‘As entertaining as ever, Agent.’ The distain was clear and Harry honestly barely blinked. He was used to people liking him for one reason and hating him for another. ‘We’ll take him.’ He’s far rougher with Acker than his partner but Harry doesn’t watch them leave for too long. A few bruises on Acker was the least he deserved, honestly. 

‘You don’t remember Auror Miller, do you?’ Gloria asks though she already knows the answer to that. Harry turns back to her with a shrug. ‘It was one of your first visits? Things exploded? We had to Obliviate a whole street of muggles and then blame it on the Metas? You left us the clean up?’ 

Harry hums in a careless manner. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Sounds like me. He one of the poor bastards work over time?’

Gloria snorts indelicately. ‘Him and half the department. You’re luck we let you back in after that.’ 

Harry nods. ’I thank your patriotism every day,’ he replies.

‘What was that? Causing trouble already, cousin?’ a voice asks, taking Harry by surprise. His hair on his neck stands up on end as he swerves around. He forgets in his startle his state as a certifiable bobble head and stumbles and would have fallen with how gravity had shifted against him if not for strong hands that grab hold of his arms and steadied him. ‘Woah there!’ 

Harry blinks away the black spots to stare up at a familiar face. ‘Zea,’ he breathes in relief, smiling slightly though the woman doesn’t return the expression. Her face was creased into something vaguely concerned.

‘You didn’t report he was injured, Gloria,’ Eliza chides although there isn’t much edge there, it’s enough. Gloria, who had sprung to her feet seemed paler, her grip on her pen having shifted to how one would hold a wand.

‘I….saw the bandages around his head but…’ Gloria trailed off and for a second fought for some inner balance as she reseats herself. ‘I apologise, I should have known better. Not to mention, he’s a Potter.’ 

‘Oy now.’ Harry huffs and tries to step back from Eliza but she’s gotten her claws into him now and doesn’t seem all that willing to let him go. ‘I resent that.’ 

Gloria looks as unimpressed as it gets. He vaguely remembers Malfoy looking similar that one time he’d tried to leave his tender care with bleeding ears. ‘No,’ she refutes impassively, ‘you resemble that.’

‘I’m not sure how much I appreciate that,’ Eliza responds before Harry can, shifting her grip to his shoulders to keep him steady even after Harry found his feet. 

‘He’s not the first in your family to bleed over my desk, Auror Potter,’ Gloria lightly comments.

‘I’m not bleeding,’ Harry feels the need to point out. He’d had stitches and everything. 

‘This time,’ Gloria corrects and…yeah, she’s not wrong. 

Eliza huffs. ‘Thanks for getting more, Gloria. I’ll take him back to my office. Healer in ten?’

Gloria inclines her head, already reaching to create another message. ‘Thanks,’ Harry adds but he’s already getting pulled away. He knows the path, having been to Eliza’s offer a number of times before. They get a few looks, and more than one official recognises him. He an see their uncertainty though no one disturbs them.

Before Harry knows it, he’s sat on her settee; stuffed into one side of the room for guests or meetings. In his days as Head Auror, Harry had had something similar. The desk was pushed into a corner of the room, filled to the brim with paperwork and having memos circling the space of her abandoned chair. It was all organised chaos, with filling cabinets lining the walls and paper and notes strewn across the floor.

Eliza sits herself opposite him, robes almost artfully splaying around her. Hazel eyes assess him and although he’d never gotten to know his dad outside of pictures, her’s were still awfully familiar. They reminded Harry of the things he had lost; he could never make up his mind if they comforted him as much as they hurt him. 

‘You look like hell,’ Eliza states after a pause too long, blunt and straightforward as she watches him, while scanning him for further injury. Her eyes linger around Harry’s shoulder and even though he had transfigured his jacket, she’s no fool.

Harry shrugs. ‘I feel it to be honest,’ he responds. ‘Had some right rotten luck with that bastard.’ 

Elizabeth “Eliza” Potter, age thirty-three-years old. Eliza had Harry’s father’s eyes and their family’s hair worn long like a lion’s mane about her head. He’d met her his first assignment to the MACUSA. As an orphan, he had known little of the Potter’s history; hadn’t known that a branch family had travelled out to America during its colonial days and had built up from there. The Potter’s had been one of MACUSA’s founders, or something of the like. Law enforcement seemed to run in the blood.

He doesn’t know which one of them had been more shocked; Eliza who had known that he was out there - because who didn’t? But recognising him as blood and not just some celebrity. Or Harry, for realising there was any blood to recognise. 

She’d been green at the time, but still a force to be reckoned with. Harry was new to the Ministry himself back then, but not to service. Neville, his partner at the time, had spent a long time looking between them. Eliza had stared a lot herself. Until, finally, she had said: _‘you remind me of my grandfather, back during - well. Grindelwald.’_

They had had a strange relationship since but Harry trusted her, despite how fraught the politics could be. They weren’t - close, but they were in the strange circumstance of knowing each other without experiencing much of each other. They could read each other, shared traits and characteristics though some may call it superficial. Harry wasn’t about to be invited over for Christmas - he had his own family, but there was this tacit agreement of support that had formed without their awareness. 

‘Must be off your game,’ Eliza comments though that was more mocking than anything. They had built up a healthy respect for each other after working together. 

‘Could just be old age,’ Harry jokes. Out of all his coworkers, he by far was kept the closest eye on, taking every precaution to ensure he didn’t die in the field. No one wanted that, could afford that. Harry was more emendable to any possible ending but that’s because he understood what his job could ask of him. 

Eliza tilts her head as her face becomes more serious. ‘So, you’re not under my jurisdiction and I feel like you’ve already going to get one hell of a reprimand once you get back to England. A part from more things to rip you about, I’ve got nothing to say about this unexpected vacation. But, I’ll need a full report. How long will you be staying?’ 

As an auror conducting work, even if they weren’t working directly with MACUSA, they didn’t need a Visa. All that was required of them was permission which granted them a pass for however long their mission lasted. Special relationship, indeed. Now that Harry was here, unless America wanted to pursue charges - which Eliza obviously didn’t, even with Acker caught, he could stay however long processing took which was really down to the two governments and Harry, himself. 

‘A couple of days? I’ll get it done before, maybe tonight? It won’t take too long, I can have the office Floo me copies of the documentation you’ll need,’ Harry replies and Eliza seems happy enough with that but, since he was here… ‘Actually, Zea there’s something I need your advice about.’

Eliza quirks an eyebrow. ‘Why does that sound like I’m about to have an impending headache, cousin?’

Harry shifts awkwardly. ‘My - er, surrogate uncle, has this ward? They live in Gotham and he’s asked me if I could work part time for awhile. I’m thinking about taking leave from the Ministry since they’re in a bit of a bind but I’m guessing I’d have to apply for a temporary Visa?’

Small admissions and white lies, they're little things but they’re things he’s not sure the Waynes’ would would want him sharing. Best keep consistent, Eliza would understand. A pain, this would be, but Harry had promised and he wasn’t in a position to leave someone in a predicament. The Ministry would take him back and his days with Teddy should be amendable to any contract he set up.

Eliza blinks. ‘What?’ 

‘My uncle’s a Squib so they’re know about magic and I have someone in mind for the work contract, but -’

Eliza raises a hand. ‘Wait, stop,’ she demands as her expression morphs into something incredulous. ‘You - you just decide to spontaneously quit your job and leave home for a job for your - “surrogate uncle”?’ 

‘Everything will still be there when I get back, Zea,’ Harry feels the need to point out. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'It’s not like I’m giving up a position and I’m not on the career track. It won’t interfere with visitation either, so it’s not like I’m losing anything.’ 

Eliza stares at him for a moment. ‘And Mom thought you were this crazy homebody.’ 

Harry’s face cools a bit. ‘I’ve done my part. England can survive without me.’

Eliza sighs, rubbing her hands down her face. ‘Not remotely what I meant,’ she denies in irritation. Her eyes sharpen with focus as they stare at him. ‘This is going to take more than ten minutes.’

Right, the healer. ‘Do you have anything planned this after this?’

Eliza groaned. ‘Not anymore,’ she says just in time for there to be a knock at the door. They glance at each other, wordlessly agreeing to put this off. Harry rounds his shoulders as Eliza calls the healer in, a harried looking man in white robes and impatiently fiddling with his wand. 

‘Head Auror?’ the healer prompts.

Eliza gestures to Harry. ‘My cousin. Head and possible torso injury.’ 

The healer blinks and without pause wavs his wand in Harry’s direction. His gaze narrows at the readings. ‘No Mag treated?’ he assumes correctly. 

‘Yeah,’ Harry admits, much to Eliza’s exasperation. ‘I refused their medication but I wasn’t able to get away from the treatment. My potions got destroyed on the trip over and with my head wound, well, I wasn’t able to apply a temporary fix.’ 

‘The perp?’ Eliza demands.

‘Gave me some trouble.’ It would be embarrassing ordinarily, the Commander certainly wouldn’t find this at all amusing. With his level of training, Acker getting the upper hand shouldn't have happened.

The healer still gives him a dirty look. ‘With the - _stitches_ you’ve been subjected to, I’m unable to properly heal you but I can give you a pain potion.’ Harry swallows his derision, often times if aurors turned up to a healer sporting muggle treatments the healer would wash their hands of their patient. From going to Malfoy for so long and having to have emergency treatments before, they had both learnt ways to implement the magic with the muggle, just not everyone bothered.

‘That’s it?’ Eliza certainly doesn’t sound impressed but then he’d nearly collapsed on her so go figure. The healer certainly wasn’t hiding his unwillingness to help or fulfil his oath either, something Eliza would pick up on. 

‘I’ll take a muscle relaxant, as well,’ Harry butts in before the healer can open his mouth. Harry’s certainly not going to force someone to treat him. ‘And something for my head, if you would. Wouldn’t want my report to be illegible, now would we?’ 

The healer’s face scrunches up but he leaves without any verbal protest to gather the requested potions. As soon as the door closes behind him, Harry relaxes back into the cushions with an irritable sigh. ‘Harry,’ Eliza rebukes. ‘You know I’m going to have to report that.’ 

Harry shrugs one-sidedly. ‘Of course, Zea but I’m not about to force someone who can turn me inside out to administer healing.’ The attitude was unfortunately common, especially with the DMLE and outside spending more and more time in the muggle world. 

Harry, himself, had almost lost both his hearing and his ear on his left side; the scar on the nape was certainly still visible after he’d been ambushed just outside London. He’d woken up inside Royal London Hospital, taking up one of their trauma beds. He’d been handcuffed to the side since he’d been surrounded by the bodies of his attackers, but he’d managed to get in contract with his auror supervisor to handle the situation. Not long after he’d been transferred to St Mungo’s where he'd gone on to receive not the best care. The bigotry and supposed superiority was obvious and it wasn’t about to be fixed any time soon.

‘I’m sorry,’ Eliza sighs and she looks more tired than ever as she slumps. ‘I can handle everything you need for you to work in America on a temporary basis. As the head of our branch family it gives you legitimacy to attain a joint citizenship if you wanted to appeal for that, but…’

Harry’s already shaking his head. ‘That’s a bit - drastic, I don’t think we have to go that far for this job. Besides, I can’t imagine what the media would print.’ 

Eliza snorts. ‘You let them get away with far too much. I’d sue for slander if they had printed a tenth about me as they have you, fucking parasites.’

‘We don’t have that type of recourse in England yet.’ Wizarding Britain, at least. The muggles at least understood that the media shouldn’t be able to print anything they wanted just to sell a headline, even if they could be just as bad. 

Eliza makes a show of rolling her eyes as she crosses her arms. ‘I’ll be your sponsor, regardless. Or - well, Dad may get involved.We’ll help you, anyway. You understand though, that on the terms of your Visa, you’d be subject to the laws of this country. The Ministry wouldn’t be able to protect you from anything serious.’ 

‘Zea,’ Harry admonishes lightly. ‘Just what do you think I’ll be getting up to?’ 

‘You’re a few explosions too late to play the whole innocent thing off successfully, cousin,’ Eliza states.

‘Drat,’ Harry sighs mournfully.

‘ _Harry_.’ 

‘I’ll remember.’ Harry holds up his hands but her ire clings to her. ‘It’s a muggle job, Zea. Not even _I_ can complicate this -’

‘Wanna bet?’

Harry pouts. ‘Have a little faith would you? I haven’t even started and I already feel like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.’

‘Oh I have faith,’ Eliza says but it sounds like a threat. One that Harry blissfully ignores. ‘two-hundred gallons that your luck plays out like it usually does.’ 

Harry narrows his eyes. ‘You’re on.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh yes! Setting some stuff in here. Forgive the OCs. Eliza's based on canon though. Abraham Potter was one of the first aurors out of twelve for President Jackson so, yeah. Harry also needed a point of contact for the inevitable crazy that's going to occur (and yeah, he's losing those gallons). I like the idea of the Potter's having branch families that have established themselves as independent in other countries. Why didn't they come for Harry? Couldn't risk a international incident and Dumbledore.
> 
> We're getting more down to business in the next chapter. With the contract, primarily. Ugh once I've properly set this stuff up than the pacing should be better, I tagged this as "snapshots" for a reason haha. (I have so many notes, so many now. All the way to Jason muhwahaha. I'm really excited :3)


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